The  Parlor  Begat  Amos 


BY 

ARTHUR  STURGES  HILDEBRAND 


\ 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ22,   BY 
HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND   COMPANY,  INC. 


**INTtD    IN    TUB    O.  S.  A.   BY 

THl    OUINN    ft    BODKN    COMPANY 

RAHWAY.    N.    J. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 


CHAPTER  I 

PHANOR  ENDAY  was  married  to  Isabel  Webster 
on  the  first  of  January,  1874. 

"  Crickey,  what  a  day!  "  he  would  say,  whenever  he 
thought  of  his  wedding.  "  How  it  did  rain  and  freeze, 
and  all!  " 

"  Any  man  that  will  get  married  on  the  first  of  Janu- 
ary don't  deserve  to  have  his  friends  come  to  see  it." 

This  was  the  opinion  of  Edward  Pillsbury,  a  school- 
time  friend  of  Phanor's.  Edward  was  a  traveling  sales- 
man and  could  tell  a  good  story,  and  Phanor  used 
often  to  repeat  the  joke,  and  laugh  about  it,  especially 
since  the  weather  of  the  wedding  day  turned  out  to  be 
so  awful. 

Phanor  had  chosen  to  be  married  on  the  first  of 
January  because  he  could  not  possibly  wait  any  longer. 
This  was  what  he  intended  Edward,  and  Isabel,  and 
every  one  else,  to  think,  and  what  he  intended  to  think 
himself. 

Phanor's  sister  Emily  was  first  out  of  bed  on  the 
wedding  morning,  and  as  she  looked  down  the  garden 
to  see  what  sort  of  day  it  was  to  be  she  was  filled  with 
apprehension,  for  she  was  certain  that  the  worst  had 

i 


2136338 


2  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

happened.  Sure  enough,  it  was  snowing — big  fluffy 
flakes  that  fell  straight  and  settled  wearily,  covering 
the  flower-beds  and  obscuring  from  sight  even  the 
nearest  neighbors'  houses. 

"Oh,  my  goodness  me!  "  she  exclaimed.  "Isn't 
that  too  terrible  for  words!  Nothing  but  trouble, 
every  single  blessed  minute!  " 

The  family  had  breakfast  in  the  kitchen,  that  morn- 
ing, since  the  other  rooms  in  the  house  were  ripped  up 
in  preparation  for  the  wedding,  and  as  they  sat  around 
the  table,  raising  their  eyes  from  time  to  time  to  glance 
out  at  the  white  world  beyond  the  windows,  they  won- 
dered in  their  hearts  why  nothing  could  ever  go  quite 
right  where  they  were  concerned. 

Mr.  Webster  was  gloomy  and  sulky,  and  kept  re- 
minding them  of  the  desperate  state  of  affairs. 

"  I've  seen  some  mighty  bad  weather  in  my  time," 
he  told  them,  boastfully.  "  But  I've  never  come 
across  anything  quite  so  bad  as  this.  I  don't  see  why 
it  don't  show  signs  of  clearing  up." 

While  the  dishes  were  being  cleared  away  he  sat  at 
the  living-room  window,  looking  out,  and  turning  to 
speak  over  his  shoulder  whenever  any  one  came  into 
the  room. 

"  I've  been  hoping  it  would  clear  up,"  he  would  say. 
"  But  it  don't  show  any  signs  of  it." 

Then  Mrs.  Webster,  or  Isabel,  or  whoever  it  was, 
would  tell  him  to  stay  where  he  was,  and  keep  out 
from  under  foot,  and  go  rushing  on  to  do  one  of  the 
fifty  million  things  that  had  to  be  done,  glancing  sav- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  3 

agely  at  him,  as  if  he  were  sitting  there  in  the  window 
condvcting  the  progress  of  the  weather. 

At  noon  it  was  raining  a  warm  white  rain  that  made 
the  ground  steam,  dripping  noisily  from  the  leaky  gut- 
ters of  the  little  old  house,  running  in  streams  down 
the  garden  walks,  and  generally  making  life  a  miserable 
thing. 

By  four  o'clock,  which  was  the  hour  set  for  the  cere- 
mony, a  bitter  wind  had  come  roaring  out  of  the  west, 
the  rain  stopped,  the  mist  vanished,  and  the  foot- 
prints and  carriage-tracks  in  the  slush  froze  hard  as 
iron. 

Every  one  was  chilled  and  discouraged,  and  felt 
abused. 

"  I've  been  looking  for  it  to  clear  up,  all  day,"  Mr. 
Webster  said.  "  But  I  don't  see  as  this  .  .  ." 

"Now,  father!  Don't  complain,"  Mrs.  Webster 
admonished  him,  sinking  wearily  into  a  chair  at  the 
other  window.  "There's  enough  to  think  about  with- 
out that.  We'll  just  have  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

Emily  Enday,  in  the  background,  glared  at  them, 
and  thought,  "  Oh,  yes;  you'll  sit  there  and  mope,  and 
leave  everything  for  me  to  do.  What  Phanor  can  be 
thinking  of,  to  marry  into  a  family  like  this,  I  can't 
see." 

She  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head,  and  went  out  to 
pour  some  boiling  water  on  the  thin  coating  of  ice  that 
was  beginning  to  form  over  the  front  steps,  to  avoid,  at 
least,  one  more  possibility  of  tragedy.  The  wedding 
guests  were  all  somewhat  decrepit,  because  of  a  con- 


4  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

genital  timidity  of  spirit,  and  their  bones  were  deemed 
valuable.  When  they  began  to  arrive,  she  found  a  place 
for  them  to  put  their  things,  and  it  was  she  who  saw  to 
it  that  their  umbrellas  weren't  mixed.  She  was  almost 
the  only  person  present  capable  of  constructive  activ- 
ity, and  her  energy  accentuated  the  helplessness  of  the 
others. 

They  all  felt  that  a  wedding  day  was  the  happiest 
of  all  possible  days,  but  they  said  nothing  of  it,  on  this 
occasion,  for  fear  of  contradiction.  With  weather  like 
this,  there  simply  wasn't  any  use  in  pretending  to  be 
happy. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  wedding  day,  in  the  families 
of  the  Endays  and  the  Websters,  was  a  day  on  which 
special  precautions  must  be  taken  against  unpleasant 
occurrences. 

"  Well,  I  hope  the  minister  gets  here,  that's  all," 
said  Phanor's  aunt  Edna.  "After  us  coming  all  this 
way!  " 

"The  train  was  late,"  said  old  Mr.  Enday. 
"Twenty  minutes,  wasn't  it,  Emily?  Weren't  we 
twenty  minutes  late  getting  to  the  junction?  Seems 
to  me  I  heard  somebody  say  so." 

"  Well,  we're  here  now,"  Emily  answered.  "  What 
I'm  worried  about  is  getting  home  again.  If  the  har- 
bor should  freeze,  so's  the  boat  didn't  run,  we'd  be  in 
a  fix." 

"  I've  seen  it  freeze,  clear  out  into  the  Sound,"  Mr. 
Enday  said.  "About  five  years  ago,  wasn't  it? 
When  was  it  we  had  that  hard  winter?  Seems  to  me 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  5 

it  was  about  five  years  ago.  Why,  we  didn't  have  any 
boats,  then,  for  more  than  three  weeks.  They  went 
out  with  sleds  to  the  edge  of  the  pack,  but  they 
couldn't  land  anything.  Or  did  they  get  some  of  the 
mail  ashore?  I  forget." 

Phanor  and  Isabel  resented  all  this  pessimism. 
After  all,  they  were  the  ones  who  were  being  married. 

Their  marriage  was  not  an  unhappy  one,  as  mar- 
riages go — and  can  there  be  any  other  criterion? — but 
it  had  bad  weather  in  it,  as  time  went  on,  with  exactly 
the  same  senseless  perversity  of  bad  weather  in  daily 
life.  They  felt  the  symbolism  of  it,  and  thought  that 
a  stormy  wedding  day  was  quite  the  natural  thing  for 
them. 

"  You  might  know  it  would  be  rotten!  "  Phanor 
said. 

"Isn't  it  just  like  it  to  be  so  horrid!  "  sighed 
Isabel. 

It  seemed  as  if  even  the  arrival  of  the  minister 
would  be  unable  to  make  any  change  in  the  depressing 
atmosphere. 

Mrs.  Webster  was  confused  by  the  uproar,  and  the 
excitement  of  having  so  many  people  about,  but  she 
held  out  bravely,  and  refused  all  suggestions  of  lying 
down  to  get  a  little  rest.  When  the  guests  began  to 
arrive,  she  made  an  effort,  and  kept  in  sight,  so  that 
she  might  be  interviewed. 

She  made  them  all  feel  that  Isabel  might  have  mar- 
ried almost  any  one.  But  she  admitted  that  she  was 


6  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

greatly  pleased  with  the  present  match,  and  confessed 
to  being  happy  in  the  thought  that  the  Arrow  of 
Cupid — this  was  the  phrase  she  used — had  so  beauti- 
fully struck  its  mark,  and  had,  at  the  same  time, 
pointed  so  unmistakably  in  the  direction  of  good 
sense. 

There  had  been  other  suitors — oh,  yes,  indeed;  no 
lack  of  suitors — but  these  had  since  been  rejected,  or 
had  died,  or,  more  vaguely,  "  gone  away,"  and  it  had 
become  evident,  in  these  cases,  that  Cupid  had  not 
shot  his  arrow  with  proper  respect  for  the  ways  of  the 
world.  The  mother  and  daughter  had  continued  their 
search. 

Then  Phanor  Enday  appeared.  He  had  a  solid  and 
dependable  quality  about  him  that  Mrs.  Webster  was 
quick  to  appreciate,  and  there  was,  moreover,  an  unde- 
sirable strain  in  his  ancestry — or  she  thought  there 
was — which  argued  for  him,  rather  than  against  him, 
since  it  brought  into  prominence  his  own  merits,  in 
contrast  to  the  excuses  which  must  be  made  for  his 
parents. 

"  Phanor  Enday  is  the  most  brilliantly  mediocre 
man  that  ever  lived,"  some  one  had  once  said  to  Mrs. 
Webster. 

But  this  was  clearly  a  mere  attempt  at  saying  some- 
thing clever,  and  it  wasn't  fair  to  Phanor,  either. 

He  was  dead  set  and  determined  to  get  ahead.  His 
one  idea  was  to  get  himself  on  the  safe  side  of  the 
gates  of  achievement  and  close  the  gates  behind  him, 
so  that  he  should  never  have  to  worry  about  anything 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  7 

again.  This  was  a  pleasant  contrast  to  many  of  the 
youug  men  of  the  day,  who  planned  brilliant  careers 
for  themselves,  and  seemed  to  care  for  nothing  if  only 
they  might  die  on  the  march,  bravely  fighting  towards 
their  goal. 

He  was  the  only  man  in  his  class  at  college  who  had 
not  a  full  beard,  and  Isabel  was  attracted  to  him  at 
once.  He  was  always  very  gay  and  merry  when  he 
first  fell  in  love,  and  Isabel  liked  him  for  it,  though 
she  had  momentary  suspicions  that  he  was  not,  per- 
haps, properly  serious-minded;  as  the  arrangements 
wore  on,  however,  he  lost  most  of  his  joyousness,  and 
she  told  her  mother  that  she  thought  they  might  go 
ahead. 

Accordingly,  Cupid  was  told  to  shoot.  He  shot. 
Phanor  was  selected.  Thereafter,  the  responsibility 
was  Isabel's. 

She  had  had  a  humiliatingly  hard  time  getting  him 
to  ask  her  to  marry  him,  but,  in  the  end,  she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  making  him  do  it.  The  engagement  was  an- 
nounced at  once,  to  cut  off  Phanor's  retreat,  for  he  was 
not  in  a  position  to  marry  at  once,  and  Mrs.  Webster 
and  Isabel  were  delighted.  The  match  was  reliable. 
Its  superlative  reliableness,  they  felt,  would  later  serve 
as  a  monument  to  their  discernment.  The  Websters 
had  always  been  reliable  people,  and  they  sought  no 
more,  nor  would  take  any  less,  for  their  only  daughter 
Isabel. 

Mr.  Webster  had  taken  no  very  active  part  in  the 
match-making,  since  he  saw  that  any  interference  on 


8  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

his  part  would  be  superfluous.  He  thought  Phanor  a 
very  good  sort  of  boy,  and  he  was  sure  that  Isabel 
would  make  a  good  home  for  him.  She  was  very  like 
her  mother,  who  had  always  been  an  excellent  home 
maker.  Phanor  ought  to  consider  himself  very  for- 
tunate. He  would  have  his  work  to  think  of,  anyway. 

Once  or  twice  he  had  wandered  into  the  parlor, 
which  was  given  up  to  the  lovers,  and  lent  them  an 
austere,  vicarious  sort  of  blessing,  and  on  one  oc- 
casion he  had  quite  a  long  talk  with  Phanor  alone. 

Mr.  Webster  was  a  printer,  and  he  felt  that  too 
many  people  considered  his  profession  a  mere  trade; 
he  had  several  pages  of  fine  old  type  framed  and  hung 
up  in  various  parts  of  the  house,  and  he  used  them  as 
texts  for  his  theme  whenever  he  caught  any  one  who 
would  listen  to  him. 

"  See  that  page  of  type  hanging  there  on  the  wall?  " 
he  had  asked  Phanor. 

Phanor  had  often  seen  it,  and  had  wondered  what  it 
was  doing  there.  It  was  printed  in  Dutch,  and  he 
didn't  know  any  Dutch.  But  he  got  up  and  crossed 
the  room  obediently,  when  Mr.  Webster  told  him  to, 
and  peered  into  the  frame  as  if  he  were  trying  to  see 
the  wall  behind  it. 

"  Beautiful,  isn't  it?  "  Mr.  Webster  asked. 

"  Um,  murmured  Phanor.    "  So  clear!  " 

"Clear!  "  Mr.  Webster  exclaimed.  "Look  at  that 
type.  Look  at  that  capital  there.  Look  at  the  spacing 
and  the  margin  and  the  make-up.  Did  you  ever  see 
anything  like  that  in  your  life?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  9 

"  Why,  no;  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did,"  Phanor  said. 

"  I  guess  not!  You  don't  see  real  artistic  work  like 
that,  now-a-days.  The  art  of  printing  has  gone  steadily 
down  hill,  ever  since  the  very  beginning."  He  glared 
at  Phanor  for  a  moment,  and  then  added,  with  fierce 
emphasis,  "  If  you  want  to  know!  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  poor  Phanor. 

He  took  the  trouble,  directly  after  this,  to  read  up  a 
little  on  the  art  of  printing,  so  as  to  have  something 
ready  for  the  next  interview.  But  before  any  further 
opportunity  presented  itself,  Isabel  reported  that  her 
father  was  frightening  Phanor,  and  the  interviews 
ceased.  The  two  met  alone  only  once  again  before  the 
wedding,  when  Phanor  called  to  ask  "  if  it  would  be  all 
right "  for  him  to  marry  Isabel. 

The  Endays  had  come  originally  from  Nantucket. 
Old  Mr.  Enday,  Phanor's  grandfather,  had  been  a 
whaler,  and  had  risen  to  be  captain  of  a  ship,  in  which 
he  had  made  several  very  profitable  voyages. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  this  old  gentleman,  whom 
Phanor  remembered  only  as  a  fixture  of  the  chimney 
corner,  had  ever  done  anything  so  definitely  vigor- 
ous as  to  lower  a  boat  at  the  cry  of  "  Thar  she  blows!  " 
and  pull  six  miles  to  windward  after  whales.  Phanor 
could  hardly  believe  this;  but  then,  it  didn't  matter. 
Life  was  a  very  different  thing  in  his  grandfather's 
day,  and  Phanor  saw  it  differently.  "  Progress,"  he 
called  it. 

The  old  man  had  retired  from  the  sea,  at  an  ad- 


io  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

vanced  age,  very  rich,  as  riches  were  counted  in  those 
days.  But  the  whale  fishery  was  started  on  its  final 
decline,  and  Mr.  Enday  saw  that  there  could  be  no 
future  in  it  for  his  son,  even  if  Obadiah — for  that  was 
the  boy's  name — had  shown  a  liking  for  it,  which  he 
did  not.  He  had,  therefore,  old  as  he  was,  started  a 
new  venture,  and  set  up  in  the  marine  hardware  busi- 
ness. Perhaps  he  was  in  a  field  too  foreign  to  his  na- 
ture, perhaps  his  market  wasn't  right,  perhaps  his  re- 
sentment at  the  failure  of  his  old  calling  was  not  a 
sufficient  motive  to  warrant  success  in  the  new;  at  any 
rate,  the  business  was  already  tottering,  when,  at  his 
death,  he  turned  it  over  to  his  son. 

Obadiah  Enday  saw  it  decrease  until  it  was  little 
more  than  a  name,  and  he  withdrew  from  it  only  in 
time  to  save  a  remnant  of  the  family  fortune.  There- 
after, he  employed  his  slender  capital  in  half-a-hun- 
dred  enterprises,  in  which  he  never  risked  enough,  nor 
persevered  enough,  to  win  success. 

He  resolved  that  his  son  Phanor  should  branch  out 
into  a  new  line,  and  to  that  end  sent  him  to  college.  It 
was  an  experiment.  Phanor  was  the  first  of  the  family 
to  receive  such  advantages.  But  so  great  was  his  feel- 
ing of  responsibility,  and  so  determined  was  he  to  re- 
trieve "  the  fallen  fortunes,"  as  he  said,  that  he  seemed 
in  a  fair  way  to  justify  the  experiment,  and  pay  back, 
in  coin  or  in  kind,  the  money  that  had  been  risked 
on  him.  He  worked  hard,  and  took  an  engineering  de- 
gree well  up  in  his  class.  It  was  during  his  Junior 
year  at  college  that  he  had  found  Isabel. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  n 

David  Fleetwood,  a  class-mate  of  Phanor's,  had  left 
college  without  waiting  to  take  his  degree,  to  accept  a 
position  with  the  Wilton  Thread  and  Novelty  Yarn 
Mills.  He  had  prospered,  married,  and  settled  down. 
Then,  having  time  to  look  about  him,  he  had  run  over 
his  acquaintances  in  search  of  likely  material  for  the 
business,  and  had  at  once,  for  the  two  were  very  good 
friends,  hit  upon  Phanor. 

In  consequence,  on  David's  recommendation,  an 
offer  of  employment  was  put  before  Phanor,  who,  after 
long  deliberation,  "  hastened  to  avail  himself "  of  the 
opportunity.  He  resented  the  necessity  of  accepting 
the  work  before  he  knew  whether  or  not  he  should  like 
it,  and  as  time  went  on,  and  he  kept  turning  it  over  in 
his  mind,  he  was  further  and  further  from  being  sure. 
As  soon  as  he  had  posted  the  letter,  he  wished  it  back 
in  his  hands  again;  he  liked  nothing  better  than  the 
state  of  not  having  made  up  his  mind. 

However,  there  was  Isabel,  who,  though  she  knew 
enough  not  to  actually  clamor,  still  was  obviously 
looking  to  him  to  do  something  about  her,  and  might 
at  any  moment  "  get  away."  So,  "  everything  consid- 
ered," Phanor  thought  he  had  done  the  best  thing, 
"  under  the  circumstances."  He  had  gone  to  Wilton, 
and  had  started  work  in  the  Mill  immediately  after  his 
graduation. 

His  start  was  not  brilliant.  He  began  to  learn  the 
business  from  the  bottom,  as  was  then,  and  still  is, 
the  customary  procedure  for  young  men  who  feel  so 
uncertain  of  their  ability  to  go  far  and  fast  that  they 


12  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

must  start  below  their  natural  level  to  achieve  a  sense 
of  long  and  rapid  progress.  But  he  had  too  little  imagi- 
nation to  be  anything  but  diligent  and  devoted,  and 
he  had  David  to  look  out  for  him.  The  field  was  new 
to  the  Enday  family,  and  any  step  in  it  looked  like 
progress. 

He  felt  that  his  father  had  escaped  being  a  total 
failure  only  because  he  had  had  sense  enough  to  drop 
his  business  when  it  got  too  hot  to  hold,  and  for  some 
time  he  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  the  condition  of  the 
Mill,  but  it  gave  no  sign  of  unsteadiness,  and  he  began 
to  see,  with  real  satisfaction,  that  he  was  in  a  business 
that  could  not  fail,  or,  what  amounted  to  the  same 
thing,  could  not  fail  because  of  him.  So  he  bent  over 
his  desk,  never  made  a  move  except  for  safety,  and 
prospered  rapidly.  By  the  Autumn  of  the  year  1873 
he  was  in  a  good  position,  and  was  sure  of  his  salary, 
which  was  eleven  hundred  dollars  a  year.  He  had, 
besides,  more  than  seven  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank. 

He  could  see,  then,  no  further  real  reason  for  delay- 
ing his  marriage.  He  was  a  little  lonely,  and  wanted 
a  home  of  his  own.  Moreover,  he  thought  that  mar- 
riage would  burn  his  bridges,  for  he  was  convinced 
that  if  he  ever  cut  loose  he  would  be  a  very  devil  of  a 
fellow,  which  he  did  not  in  the  least  want  to  be.  By 
being  married,  he  saved  himself  the  revelation  that  he 
could  not  possibly  have  been  a  devil  of  a  fellow  at  all. 

Isabel  was  delighted  when  he  wrote  her  that  she 
could  name  the  day.  "  Naming  the  day  "  was  a  privi- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  13 

lege  accorded  her  by  tradition  solely,  for  obviously  she 
could  not  name  a  day  too  advanced  for  Phanor's  finan- 
cial circumstances,  nor  any  day  at  all  until  he  told  her 
that  she  might,  but  she  took  full  advantage  of  the  tra- 
ditional right,  such  as  it  was,  when  his  letter  came.  He 
had  drawn  up  that  letter  with  the  greatest  care,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  contract,  in  which  he  must  "  protect  him- 
self," and  the  timidity  of  the  phraseology  almost  im- 
plied a  negative  answer. 

Isabel  chose  the  first  of  December.  But  that  was 
only  two  months  off,  and  Phanor  revised  it.  They 
"  compromised,"  as  he  actually  had  the  unconscious 
hardihood  to  say,  on  the  first  of  January.  He  felt  a 
little  guilty  at  the  thought  of  how  he  had  put  her  off, 
but  she  talked  so  happily  of  the  idea  of  starting  the 
new  year  together,  and  began  such  eager  preparations, 
that  he  felt  all  right  about  it  again.  The  loveliness  of 
her  eagerness  did  not  escape  him,  and  he  began  to 
think  that  he  was  not  good  enough  for  her,  nor  any 
man  good  enough  for  any  woman.  Still  .  .  .  well,  it 
might  have  been  "  more  prudent "  to  have  kept  the 
matter  open  for  a  few  more  months. 

He  didn't  really  trust  Isabel,  in  the  bottom  of  his 
heart.  There  was  no  telling  what  she  might  make  him 
do. 

"  Why,  it's  just  this,  Isabel,"  he  had  said  to  her. 
"  I  want  to  go  to  some  small  town,  that's  growing,  and 
shows  some  progress  and  enterprise,  and  grow  up  with 
the  community.  A  man's  got  to  get  established." 


14  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  You  mean  a  place  like  Wilton?  "  Isabel  asked. 

"Well,  Wilton,  or  some  place  like  that.  It  don't 
have  to  be  Wilton,  specially,  of  course.  I  might  find 
better  opportunities  somewhere  else,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,  I  want  to  do  just  the  very  best  thing 
for  your  position,  Phanor." 

"  Well,  yes.  But  it's  not  just  a  matter  of  my  posi- 
tion. A  man's  got  to  be  respectable,  and  have  some 
standing,  you  know.  It  don't  do  to  be  flighty." 

"  Oh,  we're  going  to  be  the  two  happiest  people  in 
the  whole  world,  dear!  I've  every  confidence." 

Phanor  wasn't  entirely  reassured  by  this,  but  he 
couldn't  see  what  more  he  could  do  to  make  his  posi- 
tion secure.  So  long  as  he  had  his  health,  and  Isabel 
didn't  make  him  alter  his  ideas  as  to  what  was  essen- 
tial in  life,  he  supposed  he  had  no  good  reason  to 
complain. 

On  the  wedding  day,  Phanor  kept  out  of  sight  as 
much  as  possible,  while  the  guests  were  arriving,  and 
no  one  had  missed  him,  nor  asked  where  he  was.  When 
Emily  Enday  came  out  of  the  bed-room,  with  her 
mouth  full  of  pins,  to  say  that  Isabel  was  all  ready, 
she  found  Phanor  and  David  Fleetwood  sitting  to- 
gether on  a  settle  at  the  end  of  the  upstairs  hall.  David 
was  telling  some  of  his  very  best  stories,  and  Phanor 
was  laughing  heartily,  with  somewhat  of  his  old  delight 
in  life.  When  Emily  appeared,  however,  he  seemed  to 
remember,  and  his  merriment  left  him. 

He  went  and  got  Isabel,  and  they  took  up  their  sta- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  15 

tion  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  nervously  awaiting  the 
signal  to  go  down. 

Phanor  had  short  legs,  and  a  rather  round  body, 
which  his  Prince  Albert  emphasized,  rather  than  con- 
cealed. One  of  his  shoulders  was  considerably  higher 
than  the  other,  from  long  bending  over  his  desk  at  col- 
lege and  in  the  Mill,  but  his  wedding  clothes  had  been 
made  before  this  peculiarity  evidenced  itself,  and  gave 
him  an  uncouth,  paralyzed  appearance. 

But  then,  he  felt  uncouth,  down  to  the  very  bottom 
of  his  soul.  His  round  face  was  glowing  with  excite- 
ment, and  his  dust-colored  hair  was  stuck  close  to  his 
head.  His  bristling  stiff  mustache  was  the  only  thing 
about  him  which  seemed  to  be  able  to  resist  the  sub- 
duing and  flattening  influence  of  the  catastrophe.  He 
was  limp  and  faintly  grotesque,  and  there  was  a  hunted, 
miserable  expression  in  his  eyes. 

Out  of  reluctant  consideration  for  the  fact  that  Isa- 
bel was  almost  as  tall  as  he  was,  she  had  refrained 
from  wearing  high-heeled  shoes. 

Isabel  looked  calm,  though  this  effect  was  achieved, 
perhaps,  by  an  effort  a  little  too  obvious.  She  was 
sweet  and  pretty.  Her  brown  eyes  lacked  the  look  of 
experience;  indeed,  every  curve  of  her  sensitive  face 
and  every  line  of  her  body  showed  a  failure  in  every- 
thing but  receptiveness.  She  was  dressed  more  be- 
comingly than  she  had  ever  been  before;  she  seemed 
not  to  be  Isabel  Webster  at  all,  but  simply  a  pretty 
little  suppressed  woman  waiting  to  be  married.  She 
kept  tapping  the  floor  with  her  foot  and  looking  across 


16  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

at  Phanor,  as  she  clung  tight  to  his  arm,  as  if  to  assure 
herself  that  he  was  not  beginning  to  fade  away  before 
her  eyes. 

There  were  no  unpleasant  occurrences.  The  two 
clocks,  one  upstairs  and  the  one  down,  had  been  cor- 
related with  split-second  accuracy,  which  assured  exact- 
ness, in  the  first  place.  Matilda  Strong,  who  was  at  the 
piano,  began  the  wedding  march  with  a  thunderous 
vigor  that  shook  the  house,  and  made  certain  that  there 
would  be  no  misunderstanding  of  that  signal.  On  the 
tick  of  the  clock  she  struck  the  first  chord;  at  the  first 
note  of  the  fourth  measure  Phanor  and  Isabel  started 
down  the  stairs,  followed  by  Mr.  Webster.  Mr.  Web- 
ster had  been  carefully  trained,  at  rehearsals,  in  the 
task  of  walking  so  slowly;  he  justified  the  time  spent 
on  him,  and  kept  time  to  the  music  without  once  over- 
balancing. 

Nineteen  steps  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs  they 
halted  before  the  minister;  Phanor  took  a  step  to  the 
right;  Mr.  Webster  took  two  steps  backward;  the  min- 
ister opened  his  book;  the  music  stopped.  It  was  per- 
fect. Every  one  saw  that  things  were  going  as  they 
should,  and  felt  easier  in  their  minds. 

The  actual  ceremony  took  eight  minutes  in  the  read- 
ing; that  left  twenty-two  minutes  for  good  wishes, 
hand-shakings,  and  kisses.  At  the  stroke  of  four- 
thirty  the  bride  and  groom  withdrew.  Isabel's  travel- 
ing dress  had  been  put  out  on  the  bed  precisely  as  it 
should  be;  the  person  who  had  been  detailed  to  place 
the  baggage  checks  in  the  lower  right-hand  pocket  of 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  17 

Phanor 's  waistcoat  had  placed  them  there.  As  they 
came  down  the  stairs  again  the  carriage  drew  up  at 
the  front  door. 

There  were  brief  farewells.  Isabel  wept  for  a  mo- 
ment on  her  mother's  shoulder,  and  received  a  blessing 
and  a  kiss  from  her  father.  They  made  their  way 
down  the  steps,  which  were  freezing  again,  watched 
by  all  the  tearful  nearest  and  dearest  in  the  doorway, 
and  at  six  minutes  past  five  they  were  gone.  And  all 
this  by  people  who  had  never  operated  a  railway  nor 
organized  a  coronation! 

As  they  rumbled  away  over  the  icy  hummocks  in  the 
stuffy  padded  carriage,  Isabel  put  her  hand  in  Phanor's, 
very  simply,  and  enjoyed  the  sense  of  having  all  her 
life  in  view  at  once.  She  was  Mrs.  Phanor  Enday.  It 
seemed  a  very  important  thing.  Although  she  had 
known  for  years  exactly  how  happy  she  would  be  at 
this  moment,  and  how  definitely  she  would  start  to  be 
the  sort  of  wife  she  wanted  to  be,  yet  now  she  felt  not 
so  much  happy,  as  bewildered  by  the  importance  of  the 
occasion,  not  so  sure  of  herself,  as  impressed  with  the 
difficulty  of  adapting  herself  to  her  part.  She  had 
heard  the  words  which  made  her  Mrs.  Phanor  Enday; 
yet,  somehow,  she  was  not  being  Mrs.  Phanor  Enday. 
She  felt  like  Isabel  Webster.  Then  she  remembered 
that  she  did  not  have  to  solve  this  problem  alone,  or 
anything  else  ever  again,  and  she  began  to  look  to  Pha- 
nor to  tell  her  what  to  do. 

Phanor  was  tremendously  relieved  to  have  it  over 


1 8  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

with.  He  covered  his  real  happiness,  which  he  would 
not  for  the  world  have  allowed  to  reveal  itself,  with  an 
affectation  of  savage  discontent  at  the  weather.  He  was 
always  made  most  irritable  and  disagreeable  by  any 
feeling  of  abnormality,  and  certainly  being  married  to 
Isabel  made  him  feel  more  abnormal  than  he  had  ever 
felt  in  his  life.  Gruffness  seemed  the  easiest  way  out 
of  it.  God  knew  there  were  reasons  enough!  Here  he 
was,  to  put  it  no  more  elaborately,  a  married  man,  and 
just  as  he  was  getting  started! 

"  If  I'd  have  known  it  was  going  to  be  like  this," 
he  said,  "  I'd  have  been  in  favor  of  waiting." 

Isabel  said  nothing. 

"  If  this  old  hack  should  fall  to  pieces,"  he  went  on, 
"  we'd  be  in  a  pretty  pickle!  " 

"  I  guess  it  won't,"  Isabel  said. 

"  It  looks  liable,  though.    Ice  everywhere!  " 

Isabel  was  silent. 

The  driver  suddenly  turned  up  a  side  street,  to  avoid 
a  solid  sheet  of  ice  on  which  his  horses  had  fallen,  an 
hour  before,  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  house. 

"  Hey,  there!  "  Phanor  cried.  "  Where  is  he  going? 
We  want  to  go  to  the  station!  " 

"  He  knows  it,  goosie!  "  Isabel  said. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  he  knows  it."  Phanor  leaned  for- 
ward and  rapped  on  the  window.  "  Hey!  You  know 
we  want  to  go  to  the  station?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  with  an  elaborate  effect 
of  boredom. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  19 

"There;  you  see?  "  said  Isabel,  with  a  quick  side- 
long glance  at  Phanor. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  make  assumptions,"  Phanor 
said.  "  None  of  these  fellows  have  any  idea  of  where 
they're  going."  He  reflected  a  moment.  "We've  got 
a  train  to  catch,  you  know." 

They  rumbled  on  for  a  time,  and  at  last  turned  down 
another  street,  and  headed  once  more  for  the  station. 

"  I'll  bet  the  train  will  be  late,"  Phanor  growled. 
"  I  always  said  this  was  a  rotten  jay  road.  Ice  and 
everything!  " 

Isabel  said  nothing. 

"  I'll  have  to  go  and  see  about  the  trunks.  I  hope 
they're  there,  that's  all." 

"How  absurd,  Phanor!  "  Isabel  exclaimed.  "You 
saw  them  put  them  in  the  wagon  yourself,  you  know 
you  did!  With  your  very  own  eyes!  " 

"  Well,  that's  not  saying  he's  going  to  take  them  to 
the  right  place  though,  is  it?  He  may  think  we  want 
to  go  on  the  boat." 

"  Of  course  he  don't  think  so!  " 

"Well,  I  hope  he  got  it  right,  that's  all.  I  can't 
afford  to  lose  them." 

Isabel  said  nothing. 

u  You  go  right  on  the  train  and  see  if  there's  any 
chance  of  getting  a  seat,"  Phanor  went  on.  "  I'll  go  up 
to  the  baggage  car  and  see  that  they  put  them  on  all 
right." 

It  was  evident  that  Isabel  would  take  no  responsi- 


20  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

bility.    What  did  she  think,  anyway?    Leaving  every- 
thing for  him  to  worry  about,  of  course. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  asked,  suddenly.  "  Are 
you  sick?  " 

Isabel  squeezed  his  hand. 

He  reflected  bitterly  that  she  was  only  a  woman. 
He  didn't  suppose  he  could  expect  anything  else. 
Good  Lord!  What  had  become  of  everything?  He 
had  done  for  himself  now!  He  had  thought  he  knew 
which  side  his  bread  was  buttered,  and  he  had  gone 
ahead  and  hung  a  millstone  around  his  neck! 

It  wasn't  enough  that  he  should  check  the  trunks; 
he  was  expected  to  see  that  they  were  put  in  the  car. 
He  would  buy  the  tickets,  yes;  but  was  that  the  end 
of  it?  No,  he  would  have  to  see  that  he  got  on  the 
train  himself,  and  find  Isabel,  and  wonder  if  she  had 
been  able  to  find  a  seat;  he  would  have  to  worry  about 
getting  there,  and  about  every  inch  of  the  track,  all 
the  way  to  Wilton.  Worry  and  fret  and  fuss  about 
things;  that  was  all  he  was  good  for! 

The  carriage  finally  got  to  the  station,  more  by  good 
luck  than  anything  else;  the  train  came  in,  by  some 
freak  of  Chance;  the  baggage-men  actually  bungled 
into  the  act  of  getting  the  trunks  aboard;  the  trainmen 
were  unanimous  in  their  opinion  that  this  train  was 
going  to  Wilton. 

Phanor  climbed  on,  discovered  that  he  was  in  the 
smoker,  backed  out  again,  and  got  in  farther  down; 
he  started  down  the  aisle,  looking  anxiously  from  side 
to  side  for  Isabel.  He  went  through  several  cars  with- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  21 

out  finding  her.  Had  she  taken  a  wrong  train?  Had 
she  been  able  to  keep  a  seat?  It  was  so  simple  a  thing 
to  do;  there  could  be  no  excuse  for  not  having  done  it. 

At  last  he  saw  her.  She  half  rose  in  her  seat,  smiling 
brightly  at  him  over  the  heads  of  the  people  in  front 
of  her,  waving  her  hand  to  attract  his  attention.  Dear 
little  Isabel! 

He  reached  her  side,  and  she  moved  over  to  make  a 
place  for  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  first  business  of  the  Endays,  when  they  ar- 
rived in  Wilton,  was  to  settle  down.  That  was 
what  they  came  for.  Indeed,  it  was  what  they  lived  for. 
If  settling  down,  by  some  chance,  had  been  denied 
.  .  .  but  this  would  have  ended  them,  then  and  there, 
and  there's  no  use  discussing  it. 

For  the  first  few  days  they  went  to  a  boarding  house 
which  Phanor  had  selected  before  he  went  away  to  be 
married;  it  was  the  best  they  could  do,  but  they  did 
not  like  it.  They  were  not  the  sort  of  people  to  live  at 
a  boarding  house.  The  other  inmates  were  respectable 
enough;  but  Phanor  and  Isabel  trusted  no  respecta- 
bility but  their  own.  The  atmosphere  of  the  place 
brought  them  down,  and  made  them  feel  like  other 
people —  a  feeling  which  they  resented  and  hated,  be- 
cause it  was  so  truthful.  Phanor  used  to  look  back  on 
those  early  days,  when  they  had  drifted  far  away  into 
the  past,  and  talk  of  the  desperately  hard  and  humiliat- 
ing time  he  had  had  in  getting  started  in  life. 

In  consequence  of  all  this,  they  were  not  long  in 
finding  a  real  place  to  live. 

As  they  were  on  their  way  home  from  church,  on 
their  first  Sunday  in  Wilton,  they  saw  it;  a  little  white 
house  with  a  demure,  old-fashioned  manner,  set  far 
back  from  the  street  behind  big  trees. 

22 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  23 

"Oh!"  Isabel  exclaimed.  "Isn't  that  perfectly 
dear!  " 

"  It's  bully,"  Phanor  said. 

The  gable  end  of  the  house  faced  the  street;  it  had  a 
very  steep  roof,  and  the  verge  boards  were  ornamented 
with  jig-saw  work,  like  the  icing  on  the  cakes  that  one 
sometimes  saw  in  caterer's  show-windows.  There  were 
wooded  wigglings,  too,  along  the  ridges  of  the  roofs. 
In  the  peak  of  the  gable  there  was  a  round-headed  win- 
dow, of  which  the  blinds  were  open,  and  hanging  on  a 
nail  from  the  rafters  within  was  a  derelict  brass  bird- 
cage, clearly  visible  from  the  street.  The  sight  of  this 
bird-cage,  in  some  manner  or  other,  made  Phanor  and 
Isabel  sure  that  they  must  live  in  this  little  house.  It 
seemed  to  cry  out  for  them. 

The  principal  entrance  was  at  the  side,  under  a 
porch — also  jig-sawed  out  of  all  reason — and  as  they 
crept  across  the  mossy  boards  to  peek  in  at  the  door, 
they  held  tight  to  each  other's  hands,  and  struggled  to 
keep  back  their  delight.  The  dim  interior  aspect  was 
forlorn  enough,  but  it  sent  a  thrill  through  them,  and 
wrung  their  hearts. 

A  sign  on  the  porch  post  asserted  that  the  house  was 
"  For  Sale  or  Rent,"  and  gave  the  name  of  the  man 
whom  they  should  see  about  it.  Isabel  copied  down  the 
address,  with  a  determined  directness  of  manner  that 
frightened  Phanor.  He  would  have  liked  to  think  it 
over  until  the  house  had  been  rented  to  some  one  else; 
then  he  could  enjoy  in  safety  his  hopes  for  it,  and  the 
recital  of  all  its  advantages.  He  began  at  once  to  think 


24  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

up  arguments  to  prove  that  he  could  not  possibly  af- 
ford it,  but  Isabel  was  thinking  only  of  getting  in, 
somehow,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  and  starting  to  live. 

On  Monday,  though  Phanor  begrudged  the  time 
spent  away  from  the  Mill,  they  went  to  see  the  agent, 
and  he  took  them  over  the  house.  Phanor  detected  a 
musty  smell  in  the  cellar,  and  said  that  the  drains  were 
not  in  good  condition,  but  Isabel  was  sure  she  must 
have  it,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  plumbing  or  no  plumbing, 
and  she  gave  the  agent  to  understand  that  it  would  be 
all  right.  In  two  hours  she  had  talked  Phanor  into  it, 
though  he  said  that  the  price  was  absurdly  high,  and 
asked  her  where  she  thought  the  money  was  coming 
from. 

He  worried  over  it,  as  soon  as  it  was  done,  pointing 
out  that  he  was  only  "  reasonably  sure,"  after  all,  of 
remaining  in  Wilton.  He  wanted  to  keep  the  illusion 
that  he  was  likely,  at  any  moment,  to  pull  up  stakes  and 
go  somewhere.  However,  he  was  dragged  into  it,  and 
the  door  of  the  decision  was  slammed  behind  him. 
When  all  was  said  and  done,  in  spite  of  the  worry  of  it, 
a  man  must  have  a  home. 

In  two  weeks,  by  judicious  picking  in  the  stores,  and 
by  raids  on  the  stocks  of  cast-offs  in  the  garrets  of  the 
Websters  and  the  Endays,  they  had  accumulated 
enough  furniture  to  fairly  well  fill  the  small  rooms.  At 
last  they  got  rid  of  the  painters  and  paper-hangers; 
Isabel  went  over  everything  in  one  more  spasm  of 
cleaning;  Phanor  cut  the  grass  of  the  front  lawn,  and 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  25 

they  moved  in.    They  were  at  home  then,  at  97  Elm 
Street.    They  stayed  there  for  more  than  forty  years. 

Phanor  wanted  ceilings  without  cracks  in  them,  an 
adequate  furnace,  a  garden  where  he  could  dig  and 
fuss,  a  piano  for  Isabel  to  play,  a  dressing  gown  and 
slippers,  a  double  bed,  a  few  books  that  he  need  not 
read — and  a  parlor. 

He  got  all  these  things  except  the  piano,  and  after  a 
year  and  a  half  he  got  that;  it  was  merely  a  symbol, 
for  Isabel  played  only  under  compulsion,  as  a  part  of 
her  wifely  duties,  and  neither  of  them  knew  or  cared 
the  first  thing  about  music. 

Isabel  wanted  some  pretty  furniture,  a  bright  sunny 
kitchen  at  the  door  of  which  the  grocer's  boy  would 
call  to  receive  her  orders,  a  window  which  looked  down 
the  length  of  the  garden,  where  she  could  sit  with  her 
sewing,  planning  for  the  future,  a  linen-closet — and  a 
parlor. 

The  parlor  had  two  broad  windows  looking  out  to 
Elm  Street.  The  sun  poured  in,  all  day  long,  through 
the  lace  curtains;  it  was  a  bright  and  rather  garish 
room  when  it  was  finished.  But,  to  be  accurate,  it 
never  was  finished;  it  grew  as  they  grew  and  changed 
as  they  changed,  and  always  exemplified  and  indicated 
their  life. 

The  wall-paper  was  light,  ornamented  with  clusters 
of  red  roses,  held  by  knots  of  ribbon  in  silver,  which 
rubbed  easily,  and  was  visible  only  in  certain  lights. 


26  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

The  carpet  was  light  also,  and  repeated  the  motif  of 
the  paper,  except  that  the  roses  were  larger,  and  there 
were  small  dogs  and  birds  among  them.  This  carpet 
fairly  shouted  for  attention;  it  was  the  only  thing  visi- 
ble on  entering  the  room.  The  pattern  had  a  tendency 
to  make  the  head  swim,  especially  when  one  was  not 
looking  directly  at  it,  as  was  the  case  during  ordinary 
conversation  in  the  room. 

In  front  of  one  of  the  windows  stood  a  cast-iron 
table,  heavily  gilded,  with  a  green  marble  top,  and  on 
it  stood  whichever  of  the  plants  at  the  time  most  needed 
the  sun.  Before  the  other  window  was  a  rubber-plant, 
towering  almost  to  the  ceiling. 

Isabel  had  a  little  rubber  bottle  with  a  spray  top, 
and  she  took  great  pleasure  in  spraying  the  leaves  of 
the  rubber-plant  with  a  bug-killing  concoction,  stand- 
ing on  a  chair  brought  from  the  kitchen  to  reach  the 
topmost  leaves.  As  she  perched  there  she  could  see 
her  slender  pretty  figure  in  its  soft  white  dress,  re- 
flected in  the  mirror  over  the  mantel,  and  she  used  to 
admire  it,  and  sigh  for  Phanor's  return  from  the  Mill. 
Whenever  she  did  this,  she  felt  that  she  had  been 
naughty,  and  would  jump  down  and  scurry  away  to 
the  kitchen  to  forget  about  it. 

Between  the  windows  stood  a  library  table  with  a 
red  felt  top,  littered  with  various  articles  of  use  and 
ornament:  an  ivory  paper-knife  from  Niagara  Falls,  a 
wrought  brass  bowl  from  Armenia,  a  pair  of  glass 
whale-oil  lamps  from  Nantucket,  and  a  copy  of  Mar- 
tin Tupper's  "  Proverbial  Philosophy,"  bound  in  white 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  27 

leather.  On  the  shelf  underneath  the  table  was  a  tray 
of  visiting  cards,  and  a  big  red  and  gold  volume  called 
"  Glimpses  of  Famous  Gardens." 

In  their  courting  days,  they  used  to  sit  in  the  parlor 
at  the  Websters',  side  by  side  on  the  sofa,  with  their 
arms  about  each  other  and  the  big  book  open  across 
their  knees,  looking  at  the  pictures  and  dreaming  of 
home  and  Gardens  and  the  Wide  World.  Since  they 
had  come  to  Wilton,  the  book  had  never  been  opened. 

Above  the  table  hung  a  large  picture,  in  a  varnished 
oak  frame,  called  "  Alone."  It  represented  a  sorrow- 
ing young  girl  sitting  in  a  row-boat  among  the  rushes  by 
the  shore  of  a  lake.  The  water  was  very  still,  the  light 
was  fading  from  the  sky,  and  some  lonely  birds  were 
flying  home.  The  girl's  head  was  raised  with  a  pa- 
thetic, hopeful  look,  towards  the  horizon.  The  re- 
flection on  the  glass  made  the  engraving  somewhat 
difficult  to  see,  but  when  clearly  seen,  it  bit  into  the 
soul  of  the  beholder,  and  took  away  the  sting  of  Death. 

Against  the  side  wall  was  a  large  sofa,  upholstered 
in  slippery  hair-cloth.  The  piano,  when  it  came,  was 
a  "  square;  "  a  vast,  ungainly  thing,  like  the  mon- 
strous offspring  of  a  pair  of  degenerate  tables;  its 
ponderous  lid  was  covered  with  a  blue  felt  spread  which 
Isabel  had  begun  embroidering  as  soon  as  Phanor  had 
promised  her  the  piano,  and  at  either  end  of  it  stood  a 
terra-cotta  jar  of  pampas-grass,  tied  into  a  bunch  with 
a  bow  of  green  satin  ribbon. 

Scattered  about  the  room  were  several  chairs,  with 
crocheted  or  tatted  cushions  on  their  backs;  one  was  a 


28  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

patent  spring  rocker,  which  snapped  and  creaked 
whenever  any  one  sat  in  it,  and  walked  across  the  floor, 
following  the  nap  of  the  carpet,  when  it  was  rocked. 
The  arms  and  back  of  this  chair  were  ornamented  with 
a  pattern  of  incised  lines  in  gold. 

There  was  a  white  marble  mantel-piece,  the  shelf 
of  which  was  covered  with  a  silken  scarf  with  a  fringe 
of  puff-ball  tassels.  The  shelf  bore  a  gold  clock,  sur- 
mounted by  a  pair  of  reclining  Cupids  in  crystal,  and 
a  set  of  Venetian  glass  tumblers.  These  things  were 
wedding  presents,  the  clock,  which  had  not  run  after 
the  first  month,  from  Phanor's  mother;  the  tumblers 
from  Edward  Pillsbury,  who  was  in  the  glass-ware 
line.  At  each  end  of  the  hearth  stood  a  jug  of  peacock 
feathers. 

The  mirror  above  the  mantel  was  a  fine  old  piece, 
also  from  Nantucket,  and  in  its  upper  panel  was  a  stiff, 
but  forceful,  portrait  of  the  whaling  bark  "  Rosy 
Dawn."  To  fit  its  position,  the  mirror  really  should 
have  been  placed  horizontally,  but  this  would  have  set 
the  ship  on  end,  and  though  the  mirror's  upright  pos- 
ture disturbed  the  composition  of  the  ensemble,  the 
location  was  the  most  conspicuous  in  the  house,  and 
was  inevitable.  The  best  things  were  in  the  parlor, 
and  the  rest  of  the  house  took  what  was  left. 

This  is  not  a  complete  catalogue  of  the  contents  of 
the  parlor,  even  at  the  beginning,  when  the  Endays 
settled  down,  and  many  things  were  added,  and  some 
replaced,  as  the  years  went  by;  but  it  will  serve  to  in- 
dicate the  general  tone  of  the  room,  and,  at  first,  of 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  29 

the  whole  house.  Later,  when  Phanor's  salary  enabled 
them  to  gratify  tastes  which,  had  they  been  different 
people,  they  really  would  have  had,  the  parlor  was  en- 
riched to  such  an  extent  that  it  was  no  longer  a 
reflection  of  the  general  tone  of  the  house,  but  a 
conspicuous  feature,  like  a  painted  iron  stag  on  a 
lawn. 

The  rest  of  the  house,  indeed,  was  attractive 
enough;  the  sitting-room  was  really  a  pleasant,  home- 
like place,  since  it  did  not  try  to  express  any  attitude 
towards  life.  Use  and  custom  had  worn  little  nests 
and  hollows  in  it — something  which  could  never  be  true 
of  the  parlor.  The  closely-packed  cushion  of  Phanor's 
chair,  the  frayed  rug  by  Isabel's  feet,  the  worn  news- 
paper rack  on  the  wall,  the  cleared  working  space 
among  the  piled  magazines  on  the  desk — these  were 
the  tracks  which  the  Endays  left  behind  them  as  they 
lived.  They  sank  into  the  places  which  bore  the  im- 
print of  their  bodies  and  their  characters,  and  were 
content. 

The  parlor  was  different.  For  one  thing,  it  was  an 
inspiration.  They  never  sat  in  it  except  when  there 
were  visitors,  when  the  stiff  and  formal  air  of  the 
place  made  them  feel  unnatural  and  put  them  on  their 
good  behavior,  but  they  loved  it.  It  indicated  that 
they  were  established;  they  were  out  of  the  reach  of 
all  trouble — all  trouble,  that  is,  which  was  not  in- 
herent in  life.  If  ever  they  should  be  threatened  by 
loss  of  Respectability,  by  lowered  Tone,  by  hint  of 
Failure,  it  was  only  necessary  to  point  out  to  these 


30  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Tendencies  the  fact  that  there  was  a  parlor,  and  the 
Tendencies  would  go  away,  and  stop  bothering. 

The  parlor  showed  them  what  they  had  done.  They 
had  created  something  that  did  not  exist  before,  just 
as  they  had  created  a  family  out  of  two  previously 
separate  individuals.  They  climbed  to  the  top  of  this 
their  creation,  and  viewed  the  world.  There  were  no 
two  ways  about  it:  a  successful  man  had  a  better  home 
than  a  man  who  was  not  successful,  and  the  parlor  was 
the  measure  of  it.  When  they  came  to  take  an  inven- 
tory for  purposes  of  fire  insurance,  even  Phanor  was 
surprised  to  see  how  successful  he  had  been.  It  made 
him  proud  and  happy  to  see  how  much  money  he  had 
been  able  to  spend  on  this  symbol  of  his  prosperity; 
at  the  same  time  it  made  him  cut  down  on  expenditures 
for  the  rest  of  the  house  for  a  time. 

Sometimes,  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  Phanor 
Enday  actually  had  a  parlor.  Why,  it  was  only  a  few 
years  since  he  had  lived  in  a  miserable  little  lamp-lit 
room  at  college,  wondering  how  he  was  ever  going  to 
be  able  to  provide  even  so  much  for  himself;  and  only 
a  few  years  more  since  he  was  a  grubby  little  boy  at 
home,  who  sat  dreaming  over  his  school  books  in  the 
evening,  listening  to  his  father's  complaints  of  the  dif- 
ficulty of  living,  and  hoping  desperately  that  some  gen- 
erous Deity  would  solve  the  problem  of  life  for  him, 
since  he  could  never  hope  to  solve  it  for  himself. 

David  Fleetwood  had  a  little  better  position  in  the 
Mill  than  Phanor,  and  his  salary  was  bigger.    David 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  31 

was  a  little  more  of  a  success  than  Phanor.  This  gave 
him  a  potential  advantage,  but  he  was  kind-hearted 
and  good-natured,  and  made  nothing  of  it.  But  Dolly 
Fleetwood,  who  was  a  rather  bouncing  person  of  en- 
tirely local  intelligence,  made  everything  possible  of 
the  situation,  often  in  so  vindictive  a  manner  as  to 
make  Isabel's  life  a  burden  to  her. 

Dolly  had  been  born  in  Wilton,  and  naturally  knew 
all  the  best  people — that  is,  the  best  of  the  Mill  peo- 
ple, which  was  all  that  was  possible.  She  took  it  upon 
herself  to  humble  Isabel  to  a  realization  of  her  intrud- 
ing inferiority,  under  the  pretense  of  making  her  feel 
at  home  and  comfortable  among  her  new  neighbors. 
Mrs.  Fleetwood  was  not  actually  malicious,  but  there 
was  a  strong  band  of  condescension  in  her  spectrum. 
Isabel  thought  her  horrid.  But,  of  course,  it  would  not 
do  to  quarrel. 

So  brave  was  Isabel  in  her  resistance,  and  so  care- 
fully did  she  cover  her  real  feelings,  that  the  contest 
simmered  down  into  a  mere  matter  ^f  rivalry  in 
parlors. 

Tne  earthen-ware  stand  under  Isabel's  rubber-plant, 
for  instance,  was  a  challenge  to  Mrs.  Fleetwood's  sim- 
ple wooden  rack  which  David  had  knocked  together 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the  moist  clay  pot  from  the 
carpet.  Mrs.  Fleetwood  accepted  the  challenge,  and 
her  response  was  a  squat  table  of  burnt  bamboo.  This 
gave  her  an  unquestioned  advantage  in  stands,  but 
since  the  table  was  higher  than  Isabel's  earthen-ware 
support,  it  limited  the  size  of  the  rubber-plant  which 


32  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

could  be  put  upon  it.  Isabel  pointed  this  out  to  Mrs. 
Fleetwood,  who  was  unable  to  meet  it  squarely,  and 
shifted  her  ground. 

She  bought  a  large  glass  aquarium,  filled  with 
sprawling  water-plants  and  little  ruined  castles  of 
cement  for  the  gold-fish  to  swim  about.  This  was  a 
triumph,  and  Isabel,  when  she  was  called  in  to  see  it, 
felt  crushed  and  miserable,  but  was  unable  to  do  more 
than  admire  the  aquarium  enthusiastically,  which  was 
something,  of  course,  but  not  any  real  answer. 

By  this  time  the  Endays  had  their  piano,  and  this 
made  up  for  a  good  many  minor  triumphs,  but  Isabel 
decided  to  make  sure,  and  bought  an  ebonized  music 
cabinet  to  match.  Then  she  made  Mrs.  Fleetwood 
come  in  and  look  at  it.  Mrs.  Fleetwood  had  no  piano, 
and  she  could  not  pretend  to  any  knowledge  of  music, 
and  she  was  fairly  caught.  The  best  she  could  do  was 
to  say  that  she  always  dearly  loved  music,  and  in- 
tended, if  ever  she  had  a  daughter,  to  get  an  organ  like 
Professor  Judd's,  and  have  the  child  taught  to  play 
on  it.  But  this  was  borrowing  strength  from  a  future 
generation,  and  did  not  count.  After  Mrs.  Fleetwood 
had  gone,  Isabel  played  for  two  hours. 

In  consequence  of  this  rivalry,  which  went  on,  with 
varying  fortunes,  for  years,  Isabel's  pleasure  in  her 
parlor  was  augmented.  She  took  great  delight  in 
spraying  the  leaves  of  her  rubber-plant,  cleaning  the 
Venetian  glass,  or  polishing  the  mirror  of  the  "  Rosy 
Dawn."  These  things  were  her  very  own;  they  had  a 
sacredness.  The  most  hideous  banality,  in  a  store,  was 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  33 

only  that,  and  nothing  more,  but  if  it  was  brought  home 
and  put  in  the  parlor,  it  became  an  intimate  part  of  her 
life,  with  which  the  rest  of  the  world  had  no  business. 
It  was  this  same  feeling  of  sacredness  which  pre- 
vented the  Endays  from  keeping  a  servant,  even  long 
after  they  could  have  afforded  one.  They  did  not  want 
a  strange  person  around  the  house,  making  a  ridicu- 
lous pretense  of  knowing  something  and  trying  to 
create  the  impression  that  they  were  somebody.  In  the 
course  of  time,  naturally,  the  prosperity  overbalanced 
the  sacredness,  and  they  took  in  a  servant.  It  pleased 
Isabel  to  be  able  to  speak  of  her  maid,  and  this,  in 
part,  compensated  for  the  assault  on  privacy,  but  it  was 
long  before  she  was  completely  accustomed  to  it.  Her 
mother  had  never  kept  a  servant.  Certainly  the  En- 
days  were  coming  on. 

Every  morning  at  a  quarter  to  seven  Phanor  got 
out  of  bed,  put  on  a  dark  brown  dressing-gown  over 
his  pajamas,  and  went  down  stairs  to  start  the  day.  He 
attended  to  the  furnace,  if  it  were  winter,  poked  up  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  moved  the  tea-kettle  to  the  front  of 
the  stove.  Then  he  went  to  the  front  door  to  take  in 
his  paper;  he  enjoyed  doing  this;  it  pleased  him  to  be 
thus  visible  for  a  moment,  punctually  every  morning, 
at  his  own  front  door,  taking  in  his  paper.  There  was 
something  so  beautifully  established  about  it.  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  to  take  a  deep  breath,  and 
imagined  the  neighbors  saying,  "  There's  Mr.  Enday, 
taking  in  his  paper." 


34  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

When  he  came  back  upstairs  to  the  bed-room,  Isa- 
bel would  be  partly  dressed,  and  so  perfect  and  pre- 
cise was  the  organization  of  the  Enday  household  that 
she  was  always  at  the  same  stage  of  her  dressing  when 
he  pushed  open  the  door.  If  she  should  happen  not 
to  be,  he  asked  if  she  were  sick,  and  she  hurried  up.  He 
kissed  her,  roughly  to  cover  his  shyness,  and  sent  her 
off  downstairs  to  get  breakfast.  The  sound  of  the  cof- 
fee-mill came  rumbling  up  through  the  house  just  as  he 
was  tying  his  tie.  It  wasn't  often  he  missed  it.  When 
he  got  downstairs  again,  breakfast  was  ready. 

During  breakfast,  he  read  the  paper.  This  was  not 
because  he  did  not  care  for  her  conversation,  as  he 
had  explained  to  her,  once  and  for  all,  at  the  beginning, 
but  because  he  had  no  other  chance  to  find  out  what 
was  going  on  in  Wilton  and  the  rest  of  the  world. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  find  a  head-line  of  inter- 
est, and  he  would  read  out  to  her  how  some  banker, 
or  real-estate  man,  had  died,  or  that  some  one  had  been 
ruined  in  a  financial  failure.  Isabel  would  want  to 
know  what  the  trouble  had  been,  if  it  was  a  death,  or 
in  the  case  of  a  failure,  if  the  women  and  children  had 
been  provided  for.  Sometimes  these  accounts  of  the 
troubles  into  which  other  people  got  themselves  were 
so  interesting,  and  kept  them  so  long  in  discussion,  that 
Phanor  would  actually  have  to  hurry  to  get  to  the 
Mill  on  time. 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Isabel  would 
go  to  the  parlor  window  and  wave  her  hand  to  him  as 
he  turned  the  corner  by  the  drug  store.  Phanor  never 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  35 

failed  to  look  back.  Then  Isabel  submerged  herself  in 
her  housework  again,  and  Phanor  went  on  into  the 
world  of  the  Mill. 

The  Mill,  built  of  gray  granite,  stood  solidly  beside 
the  river,  taking  up  all  one  side  of  Center  Street  for  a 
third  of  its  length.  All  day  long  the  whirr  and  clatter 
of  the  spinners  echoed  from  that  vast  cliff  of  dingy 
windows;  at  noon,  when  the  whistle  blew,  and  passers- 
by  stopped  to  compare  their  watches,  the  sudden 
silence  seemed  like  a  stoppage  of  the  revolution  of  the 
earth.  The  horse-cars  stood  in  long  lines  before  the 
main  gate,  and  the  throngs  of  workers  poured  out  and 
scrambled  on  precisely  like  gaily  colored  marbles 
tipped  from  a  box. 

At  night  the  windows  gleamed  darkly;  the  ma- 
chinery was  at  last  quiet,  and  the  human  part  of  the 
world,  dressed  up  in  obvious  finery,  emerged  to  prome- 
nade up  and  down  before  the  brightly  lighted  windows 
of  the  shops.  The  robust  girls  walked  arm-in-arm  in 
rows  across  the  sidewalk,  bending  double  in  occasional 
screams  of  laughter,  looking  back  over  their  shoulders 
at  the  young  men  who  stood  in  the  store  doorways, 
smiling  and  nodding  after  them. 

Beyond  the  Mill,  an  area  of  side  streets  was  filled 
with  Mill-hands'  houses;  little  boxes,  all  alike,  painted 
white,  standing  in  rows;  there  were  two  doors  and 
four  windows  in  the  fagade  of  every  house,  chimneys 
at  each  end,  kitchen  ells  at  the  rear  corners,  and  out- 
houses in  the  back-yards. 

Opposite  the  main  gate  of  the  Mill,  Arbor  Avenue 


36  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

ran  out  into  the  country.  Along  it  stood  the  houses  of 
the  people  who  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Mill;  the 
Mill-people  regarded  them,  as  they  regarded  them- 
selves, as  of  a  different  order  of  being.  They  were 
stuck-up  aristocrats.  The  Mill-people  were  common 
toilers. 

Off  to  the  right  of  Arbor  Avenue,  a  few  quiet  and 
tree-lined  streets  contained  the  houses  of  the  better 
sort  of  Mill-people.  The  noise  of  the  spinners  never 
reached  these  dull  and  comfortable  houses,  and  the  peo- 
ple who  lived  in  them  found  sanctuary  from  the  dreary 
world — that  is,  the  world  of  the  Mill.  By  these  pleas- 
ant streets,  where  the  birds  sang  in  Spring  and  the 
brown  leaves  fell  in  Autumn,  the  town  measured  its 
growing  prosperity. 

From  the  rolling  hills  all  about,  where  the  muddy 
roads  wound  down  from  the  farms,  the  high  gray  walls 
of  the  Mill  showed  above  the  roofs  and  tree-tops,  and 
the  great  chimney,  with  "  W.  T.  &  N.  Y.  Co.,"  done 
vertically  in  yellow  bricks,  sending  up  a  great  black 
plume  of  rolling  smoke,  proclaimed  to  Heaven  that 
here  men  had  gathered  to  make  life  real. 

In  this  world  Phanor  was  forced  to  work  and  exist; 
but  he  lived  in  Elm  Street,  to  the  right  of  Arbor  Ave- 
nue. The  world  was  filled  with  people,  and  he  didn't 
like  people.  He  wanted  to  be  let  alone. 

When  he  came  home  for  lunch,  he  was  likely  to  be 
completely  changed  by  the  events  of  the  morning,  and 
at  night,  depending  on  what  had  happened  during  the 
afternoon,  he  would  be  changed  again.  Isabel  kept 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  37 

careful  watch  of  this,  and  tried  to  treat  him  as  he 
seemed  to  require. 

All  during  the  day,  she  was  busy  with  her  house- 
work, and  enjoyed  it.  There  were  times  when  she 
found  herself  with  nothing  to  do,  but  she  was  not  a 
person  susceptible  to  boredom,  and  she  soon  checked 
all  tendencies  towards  despondency  by  the  simple  pro- 
cess of  reflecting  on  her  blessings  and  advantages. 
Now  and  again  she  was  completely  carried  away  by 
her  sense  of  happiness,  and  she  would  run  into  the  par- 
lor to  contemplate  her  radiant  face  and  bright  eyes  in 
the  mirror  of  the  "  Rosy  Dawn,"  until  she  was  compelled 
to  execute  a  fantastic  dance  out  through  the  house  to 
the  kitchen  again,  or  upstairs  to  her  sewing,  from  mere 
excess  of  spirit. 

In  the  evening,  they  lived.  There  was  nothing  so 
fine,  during  the  day,  as  coming  home  at  night.  Phanor 
talked  about  the  men  in  the  Mill,  or  the  new  furniture 
that  they  hoped  to  buy  for  the  parlor,  or  the  story  that 
David  Fleetwood  had  told  him  of  the  trusted  and 
seemingly  respectable  man  who  had  stolen  some  money, 
and  Isabel  would  bring  forward  her  news,  and  tell  how 
she  had  been  obliged  to  buy  another  dollar's  worth 
of  milk-tickets,  or  how  she  had  forgotten  to  empty  the 
pan  under  the  ice-box,  and  had  found  a  great  puddle  on 
the  floor.  If  Phanor  didn't  feel  like  talking,  he  pre- 
tended to  be  worried  about  something,  and  stared  at  his 
paper  in  silence,  while  Isabel  brought  out  some  fancy- 
work  or  sat  with  a  book  before  her  and  thought. 

Rarely,  some  one  came  to  see  them,  and  then  they 


38  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

turned  up  the  gas  in  the  parlor,  and  tossed  remarks 
back  and  forth,  as  if  they  were  playing  a  game — each 
remark  a  challenge  to  think  of  something  to  say  in 
reply.  They  almost  never  went  out;  Phanor  didn't 
like  to  leave  the  house  alone,  and  they  were  certain  to 
be  late,  lose  sleep,  and  break  up  the  routine  of  the 
following  day.  He  never  made  love  to  her,  though 
sometimes  he  would  come  behind  her  chair  and  curve 
his  palm  under  her  chin,  and  sometimes  he  would  catch 
her  hands  as  she  was  going  upstairs  ahead  of  him  in  the 
dark. 

All  this  seemed  natural  and  right,  and  though  they 
both  sometimes  wondered  why  life  seemed  to  have  so 
little  in  it,  they  never  spoke  of  it.  They  knew  the  dan- 
ger of  expecting  too  much,  and  they  had  Phanor's  suc- 
cess to  be  thankful  for. 

So  things  went  on.  But  at  the  end  of  a  year  an 
event  occurred  which  broke  the  continuity  of  life  with 
suddenness  and  finality. 


CHAPTER  III 

ONE  cold  and  windy  night  in  December,  Phanor 
came  home  late  from  the  Mill.  He  had  sat  at 
his  desk  long  after  the  clerks  had  gone;  the  roar  of  the 
machinery  had  stopped;  the  clock  was  ticking  noisily 
and  eternally;  his  was  the  only  light  in  the  long  range 
of  frosty  windows  that  stared  out  across  the  mill-pond. 
He  was  fussing  with  the  new  shipping  order,  turning 
over  the  printer's  proofs,  trying  to  imagine  how  the 
thing  would  work  when  it  was  done.  It  was  wrong, 
but  he  couldn't  mend  it.  Why  the  devil  didn't  printers 
write  like  human  beings?  At  last  he  tossed  the  papers 
wearily  up  onto  his  desk,  with  the  reflection  that  to- 
morrow was  another  day,  got  his  hat  and  coat,  turned 
out  the  light,  and  left. 

At  the  door,  the  cold  checked  him.  He  turned  up 
the  collar  of  his  coat,  drove  his  hands  deep  into  his 
pockets,  and  set  out,  thinking  of  home.  The  minutes 
occupied  in  walking  home,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  were 
among  the  pleasantest  of  Phanor's  whole  life.  In  his 
imagination,  he  need  not  be  consistent,  nor  reasonable, 
as  the  Mill  required  him  to  be;  he  could  just  be  him- 
self, to  stew  over  his  worries,  or  reflect  on  his  bless- 
ings, with  no  one  to  stop  him. 

Now,  then,  did  he  not,  in  fact,  have  the  best  and 

39 


40  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

happiest  home  a  man  ever  had?  To  be  sure,  he  had 
done  nothing  to  deserve  it — well,  no;  that  was  not 
being  fair  to  himself.  His  drudgery  at  the  Mill,  solid 
and  uncomplaining,  was  really  faithful  service,  for 
which  the  Mill  was  rewarding  him.  "  Years  of  Faith- 
ful Service  " — that  was  the  phrase  people  used  when 
they  presented  loving-cups  or  engraved  umbrellas  to 
men  who  had  spent  their  lives  at  desks.  Well,  he  was 
getting  on  into  years.  Sometimes  idlers  and  idealists 
said  that  the  world  was  not  always  just  in  rewarding 
the  faithful;  Phanor,  at  any  rate,  had  seen  no  evidences 
of  any  injustice.  Let  a  man  work  hard  and  faithfully, 
giving  "  the  best  that  was  in  him,"  and  the  world  saw 
to  it  that  he  had  a  safe  home  on  windy  nights. 

Presently  he  would  turn  the  corner  by  the  drug 
store,  and  see  the  lights  of  home.  The  Lights  of 
Home!  How  well  the  poets  sometimes  put  things! 
They  must  have  watched  people  going  home,  and  noted 
their  happiness. 

What  a  good  girl  Isabel  was,  to  be  sure!  Nothing 
showy,  perhaps;  just  a  good,  common  creature,  blos- 
soming out  into  perfection  by  becoming  his  wife.  Bless 
her  heart!  The  Lights  of  Home,  and  Isabel. 

He  rounded  the  corner,  and  started  up  Elm  Street. 
The  lights  did  not  appear.  He  slowed  down,  and 
looked  again.  No  light.  Oh,  yes,  there  ...  no,  that 
was  the  Fleetwoods'  light;  he  knew  that  red  lamp- 
shade. He  walked  faster,  looking  ahead  against  the 
keen  wind  with  such  intensity  that  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  he  was  obliged  to  brush  them  away,  theatri- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  41 

cally,  with  his  hand.    What  could  be  the  matter?  Some 
tragedy?    Was  Isabel  out,  at  this  time  of  night? 

As  he  came  nearer,  there  was  no  room  for  further 
doubt;  the  whole  front  of  the  house  was  dark.  What 
could  have  happened?  Robbers?  Was  Isabel  lost  in 
the  bitter  night,  wandering,  cold  and  whimpering  with 
fright,  through  the  wind-swept  drifts?  Or  was  it  worse 
even  than  that,  and  was  she  lying  stiff  and  silent  some- 
where, and  had  she  called  his  name  before  she  died? 

Oh,  no  ...  there  was  a  light  in  the  kitchen. 

Isabel  was  at  home,  then.  His  bewilderment 
changed  to  rage  when  he  saw  how  foolish  he  had  been. 
What  was  the  meaning  of  this  darkness  in  the  front 
hall?  Did  she  think  she  could  go  ahead  and  break 
all  the  Rules,  without  thinking  of  him  at  all?  Well, 
he  would  come  stamping  in,  cold  and  weary,  in  his 
Own  Home,  and  demand  his  rights.  "  What's  the 
meaning  of  this?  "  he  would  ask.  Then  he'd  see  what 
she  had  to  say  for  herself.  He'd  find  out  what  it  was 
all  about.  Trust  him. 

As  he  entered,  he  purposely  tripped  over  the  door- 
mat, to  emphasize  the  dangers  of  a  darkened  hall,  and 
ran  noisily  against  the  newel  post  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

The  street  lamp  in  front  of  the  house  shone  in 
through  the  parlor  windows  and  traced  on  the  walls 
and  floor  the  pattern  of  the  lace  curtains  as  delicately 
as  if  by  tropical  moonlight.  The  huge  shadow  of  the 
rubber-plant,  towering  up,  filled  all  one  corner  of  the 
room. 


42  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  What  the  devil  .  .  ."  he  began,  and  then  stopped, 
so  quieting  was  the  effect  of  the  fantastic  shadows,  and 
so  great  a  hush  of  spirit  seemed  to  emanate  from  Isa- 
bel, as  she  rose  from  where  she  had  been  sitting  by  the 
window.  He  was  full  of  questions  for  her  to  answer, 
but  she  put  herself  at  once  into  his  arms,  and  he  could 
not  ask.  She  put  up  her  mouth  to  be  kissed,  and 
Phanor  kissed  her,  dumb  with  wonder. 

"  Phanor,"  she  said.  "  I  think  we're  going  to  have  a 
child." 

He  started,  and  caught  her  wrists  strongly  in  his 
hands,  as  if  to  force  her  to  confess  that  it  was  not  true. 
She  nodded  her  head.  He  put  his  arm  around  her,  for 
she  seemed  to  want  it,  and  stood  waiting,  without  a 
thought  in  his  mind.  Her  sudden  dependence  put  him 
off  his  guard,  and  made  him  forget  that  he  was  stand- 
ing in  the  parlor,  still  wearing  his  hat  and  overcoat. 

"  Isabel,"  he  said,  tenderly,  and  then,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  add,  "  Little  girl." 

Isabel  felt  a  little  guilty  at  the  needlessly  dramatic 
manner  in  which  she  had  chosen  to  make  her  an- 
nouncement; she  had  been  deeply  moved  at  the  con- 
viction that  her  whole  life,  from  thence  forward,  was 
to  be  completely  altered,  but,  even  so,  she  knew  that  if 
she  should  let  her  baby  break  into  the  daily  routine, 
Phanor  would  never  forgive  her.  She  was  entirely  de- 
pendent on  him  now,  and  she  realized  the  fact.  Be- 
sides, simply  for  herself,  she  could  not  allow  life  to 
depart  from  its  usual  safe  and  satisfying  channels. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  43 

Phanor's  thoughts  were  more  definite.  That  a 
trembling  and  timid  woman  should  creep  into  his  arms 
in  the  darkened  room,  and  tell  him  the  thing  that  Isabel 
had  told  him,  was  bad  enough,  but  it  was  at  its  worst 
when  he  realized  that  this  ridiculous  moonlight  trick- 
ery was  associated  with  the  most  serious  facts  of 
life. 

For  he  saw  at  once  the  seriousness  of  the  situation. 
From  now  on,  he  would  have  not  only  a  wife  to  sup- 
port, but  a  baby.  It  meant  an  enormous  increase  of 
responsibility,  and  the  whole  burden  of  it  fell  on  the 
one  person  who  least  wanted  it,  and  could  least  sup- 
port it. 

He  thought  it  over,  as  calmly  as  he  could,  and  saw 
what  it  amounted  to.  He  had  come  to  grips  with  the 
Future — which  was  always  disarranging  his  plans,  any- 
way— and  had  virtually  set  his  hand  to  a  promissory 
note  for  ten  thousand  dollars,  to  be  paid  in  instal- 
ments of  six  or  eight  hundred  each  year,  for  as  many 
years  as  the  child  should  be  dependent  on  him — and 
God  knew  how  much  longer  than  that  it  might  be! — 
all  without  the  slightest  security  that  the  future  would 
protect  him  in  the  event  of  any  emergency. 

He  had  thought  of  having  children,  of  course — there 
was  no  harm  in  just  thinking  of  it — but,  Good  Lord, 
he  hadn't  realized!  He  could  not  reconcile  himself 
to  the  monstrous  injustice  of  it.  Life  had  played  a 
trick  on  him. 

He  blamed  Providence  for  it,  readily  enough,  but 
Providence,  somehow,  seemed  to  shirk  a  share  in  the 


44  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

consequences.  Here  he  was,  just  nicely  started,  and 
then  this  had  to  happen ! 

There  was  one  encouraging  feature  of  the  situation, 
he  could  blame  Isabel.  When  they  had  discussed  a 
child,  as  a  possibility,  she  had  responded,  with  shining 
eyes,  in  so  tender  and  loving  a  manner  as  to  make  her 
approval  seem  almost  a  request.  It  was  she  who  had 
gotten  him  in  for  it.  It  was  true  that  she  also  had 
made  outrageous  demands  on  the  future,  which  it 
would  tax  her  to  satisfy,  but — well,  what  had  that  to 
do  with  it?  He  would  try  to  be  kind  to  her,  he  sup- 
posed; but  she  needn't  think  she  had  any  right  to  his 
consideration. 

"  Well,  I  guess  we're  in  a  hole  now,  right  enough," 
he  said,  one  evening. 

"  Why,  what  makes  you  say  a  thing  like  that?  " 

"  Good  Lord,  Isabel!  If  you  can't  see  it,  I  can't  ex- 
plain it  to  you!  I  hope  I  don't  lose  my  job,  that's  all." 

"  Lose  your  job !  Why,  what's  happened  to  put  an 
idea  like  that  into  your  head?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing's  happened.  But  there's  going  to  be 
another  mouth  to  feed  before  long,  you  want  to  re- 
member. I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  meet  my  obliga- 
tions." 

"What  nonsense,  Phanor!    Of  course  you  will." 

"  That's  easy  to  say.  I  hope  the  boy  don't  become 
dependent  on  Charity  when  he's  older,  that's  all." 

He  enjoyed  this  sort  of  talk,  knowing  that  it  was 
himself  who  said  it,  and  that  it  needn't  be  taken  se- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  45 

riously.  But  when  his  Aunt  Edna  came  to  Wilton  on  a 
visit,  and  talked  in  the  same  manner,  he  was  bitterly 
resentful.  Why  couldn't  people  let  him  alone? 

"  Ah!  So  there's  a  little  stranger  coming,  is  there?  " 
Aunt  Edna  said. 

Phanor  scowled  at  her,  disapprovingly — she  was  a 
gray,  mousy  person,  insignificant  to  look  at,  but  sharp 
as  acid — and  Isabel  merely  nodded  meekly  in  con- 
firmation. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  know  what  you're  about,"  Aunt 
Edna  continued.  "  I'm  sure  I'd  think  twice  before  I 
went  ahead  and  took  any  such  responsibility.  Bring- 
ing up  a  child,  in  these  days,  is  something  to  think 
about!  " 

"  Of  course,"  Isabel  said,  "  Phanor  and  I  appreciate 
the  responsibility." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it,  child?  Lands  sakes! 
The  precious  soul !  And  left  for  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry 
to  bring  up!  " 

"  I  guess  we'll  do  as  well  with  it  as  anybody," 
Phanor  said,  defiantly. 

"  Now,  what  makes  you  so  cocksure?  What  expe- 
rience have  you  ever  had,  I  should  like  to  know?  Sup- 
pose the  child  begins  to  eat  you  out  of  house  and 
home;  what  then,  hey?  Nothing  but  bills  to  pay, 
morning,  noon  and  night.  Oh,  you'll  see!  " 

"  Phanor's  position  .  .  ."  Isabel  began. 

"  Yes;  and  supposing  something  happens  to  Phanor? 
What  then?  A  private  room  in  the  hospital,  like  as  not, 


46  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

for  weeks  on  end,  while  he's  getting  back  his  strength, 
and  the  doctors  holding  out  their  hands  for  the  money. 
That'll  be  a  drain  on  you,  I  guess.  Hey?  " 

"We've  no  reason  to  suppose  that'll  happen,  Aunt 
Edna,"  said  Isabel. 

"  No,  and  the  last  person  it  happened  to  didn't  have 
any  reason  for  supposing  it  would  happen,  either! 
Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  you  know  where  the 
money's  coming  from.  Only,  if  I  was  in  your  shoes, 
I'd  have  thought  twice  before  I  went  and  got  all  that 
expensive  furniture  and  fixings  for  my  parlor.  What 
did  you  tell  me  you  paid  for  that  library  table?  " 

"  It  was  eighteen  dollars,"  Isabel  said. 

"  There;  you  see?  Well,  I  hope  the  child  don't  be- 
come dependent  on  Charity  when  he's  older,  that's  all." 

Phanor  didn't  try  to  protest,  nor  to  meet  Aunt 
Edna's  comment  with  argument;  he  took  it  out  in 
wishing  she'd  get  along  home  about  her  business.  He 
hoped  it  was  plain  enough,  now,  that  the  whole  thing 
was  unnecessary.  Lord,  things  like  this  didn't  happen 
down  at  the  Mill! 

As  time  elapsed,  he  reached  a  state  where  the 
thought  of  his  obligations  had  less  power  to  irritate 
him,  and  he  turned  his  mind  to  the  problems  of  educa- 
tion and  conduct.  On  this  point,  at  least,  he  wouldn't 
be  caught  unprepared. 

He  knew  how  children  should  be  brought  up,  for  he 
had  had  the  experience  of  being  a  child  himself.  From 
the  vast  jumble  of  ideas  that  swept  in  disorder  through 
his  mind,  he  evolved  a  general  theory  that  the  proper 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS      47 

course  was  to  give  his  child  all  the  advantages  he  him- 
self had  lacked.  It  did  not,  in  fact,  occur  to  him  to 
give  the  child  what  he  knew  to  be  best,  or  what  the 
child  seemed  by  temperament  and  character  to  de- 
mand; he  wanted  only  not  to  give  it  what  was  not 
best,  and  to  take  care  that  it  should  not  demand  what 
temperament  and  character  ought  not  rightfully  to 
demand. 

When  he  considered  the  probable  sex  of  the  child, 
he  found  himself  horribly  embarrassed  at  the  thought 
that  he  might  perhaps  have  a  daughter.  He  felt  that 
he  knew  so  little  of  women  that  he  must  inevitably  fail 
to  create  a  good  one,  or  even,  since  he  had  only  the 
vaguest  notions  of  what  went  to  make  up  a  feminine 
nature,  of  creating  a  complete  one.  He  hoped  very 
much  that  his  child  would  be  a  boy,  or,  if  it  had  to  be 
a  girl,  that  Isabel  would  have  the  definitive  share  in  its 
creation. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  lack  of  proper  guidance  in 
his  youth;  he  had  not  been  told  what  life  meant  to  him. 
He  intended  to  give  his  son  the  Key.  The  Key,  that 
is,  which  he  had  never  had.  Though  he  knew  that  he 
should  never  have  soared  beyond  the  farthest  stars, 
even  with  the  most  favoring  instruction,  still,  he  might 
have  struck  a  higher  mark  if  he  had  been  released  for 
flight  in  the  proper  manner. 

He  thought  he  knew  the  deficiencies  of  his  own  up- 
bringing, which  was  nearly  the  same  thing,  in  his  mind, 
as  knowing  how  to  correct  them,  and  he  concluded  that 
the  responsibility  for  being  a  father  resolved  itself,  in 


48  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

the  end,  into  a  genius  for  correction,  so  that  his  son 
should  be,  under  him,  what  he  himself  would  have 
been  had  not  his  own  father  missed  the  essential  idea. 

His  son  would  thank  him  for  it,  afterward.  He  had 
heard  that  phrase  before;  now  he  knew  what  it  meant. 

If  the  child  were  a  girl — Oh,  devil  take  it,  what 
should  he  do  with  a  girl!  He  tried  to  discover  what 
happened  to  girls  in  the  world,  but  he  made  no  prog- 
ress. It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  perhaps 
treat  her  as  if  she  were  a  boy.  He  had  heard  of  that 
sort  of  thing  being  done — in  plays,  mostly.  It  was 
reasonable,  though.  If  he  should  try  to  make  some- 
thing of  a  girl,  it  would  be  only  the  same  sort  of  thing, 
in  a  lesser  degree,  that  he  would  make  of  a  boy.  When 
he  tried  to  think  out  a  plan  for  a  girl's  life,  he  could 
see  nothing  but  a  series  of  shameful  and  degrading  con- 
tacts with  things  with  which  a  girl  had  no  business. 
If  she  should  want  to  marry,  it  would  be  practically 
impossible  to  find  a  man  good  enough  for  her;  there 
was  not  a  man  in  his  whole  circle  of  acquaintance 
whom  he  did  not  know  too  well  to  trust  in  such  a  mat- 
ter. However,  the  child  would  probably  be  a  boy. 

"It's  quite  a  problem,  isn't  it?  "  he  said  to  Isabel. 

"  I  guess  it  is,"  she  answered.  "  There's  so  many 
sides  to  it.  I  suppose  we'll  just  have  to  feel  our  way 
along  and  do  the  best  we  can  when  the  time  comes." 

"  I  don't  like  that  way  of  going  at  these  things," 
Phanor  objected.  "  It's  best  to  have  a  whole  program 
thought  out,  and  then  you're  not  caught  napping." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  49 

This  was  what  Isabel  hoped  he  would  say.  She 
found  herself  being  crushed  and  warped  and  turned 
aside,  at  every  step,  by  the  relentlessness  of  life,  and 
she  didn't  see  how  she  was  ever  to  get  through  with  it 
unless  Phanor  had  a  program.  Thank  God  she  could 
count  on  Phanor. 

Of  course,  Phanor  had  no  more  thought  out  a  pro- 
gram than  he  had  thought  out  anything  else.  He 
simply  did  a  great  deal  of  serious  worrying. 

When  the  time  arrived  for  Isabel  to  begin  making 
baby  clothes,  he  saw  that  there  was  no  escape.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  might,  out  of  consideration  for  his 
feelings,  change  her  mind,  and  then  there  would  be  no 
baby  after  all.  But  as  the  days  passed  she  showed  no 
sign  of  changing  her  mind,  and  continued,  in  blind 
faith,  to  make  baby  clothes.  She  was  committing  her- 
self, and  him. 

She  had  lined  a  basket  with  soft  materials  and  dainty 
colors,  ornamented  with  bows  of  ribbon,  and  as  clothes, 
and  other  articles,  were  finished,  she  put  them  away  in 
it  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  owner. 

Phanor  would  sit  watching  her  at  work,  contemplat- 
ing the  basket  in  a  reflective  and  dreamy  manner,  try- 
ing to  imagine  it  occupied,  and  trying  to  guess  the 
nature  of  the  changes  its  occupancy  would  bring  into 
their  lives.  Bad  as  it  all  was,  there  was  something 
very  sweet  and  moving  in  the  way  Isabel  worked. 
Phanor  felt  bungling  and  stupid,  and  unworthy  the 
gift  of  existence. 


SO  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  This  youngster,"  he  said,  suddenly,  like  one  who 
had  hesitated  for  a  long  time  on  the  edge  of  speech. 
"  Do  you  think  it  will  be  a  boy?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Isabel  answered.  "  I  suppose  we 
can't  tell.  The  doctor  was  telling  me  something  about 
heart-beats,  but  I  didn't  understand  a  word  of  what 
he  was  saying.  Would  you  like  it  to  be  a  boy?  " 

"  Oh,  kind  of,"  Phanor  said.  "  I  can't  get  used  to 
the  idea  of  a  girl.  How  can  you  go  ahead  with  the 
clothes  and  things,  though,  without  knowing?  " 

"  Babies  are  all  alike  for  a  little  while,"  Isabel  smiled 
tolerantly. 

"  I  see."  Phanor  was  abashed.  "  Well,  maybe  a 
girl  some  other  time;  but  not  this  time." 

He  knew  he  was  giving  a  false  impression.  He  didn't 
want  ever  to  have  another  child,  unless,  that  is,  the  pro- 
cess of  having  this  one  should  turn  out  to  be  easier  than 
he  expected,  which  didn't  seem  likely.  But  he  didn't 
want  to  seem  to  be  putting  Isabel  off. 

"  It's  strange,  isn't  it?  "  he  went  on. 

"  It  don't  seem  strange  to  me,"  Isabel  said,  soft-eyed, 
stopping  her  work. 

"  I  suppose  not."  Phanor  saw  plainly  that  she  was 
trying  to  make  a  fool  of  him.  "  Well,  I  hope  it's  a 
boy.  There's  more  sense  to  a  boy." 

"There's  sense  to  a  girl,  too;  I  guess  I  know  that. 
But  I'd  like  it  to  be  a  boy,  too,  if  you  want  a  boy." 

Phanor  scowled,  and  rattled  his  paper. 

"  Suppose  he's  sickly?  "  he  said.  "  Lord,  I  hope 
not!  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  51 

Isabel  shut  her  lips  very  tight,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
prevent  this  thought  from  gaining  entrance  to  her 
mind.  She  was  a  poor  weak  woman,  and  life  frightened 
her  at  times;  Phanor,  who  thought  things  out,  had 
been  all  through  fear,  and  had  come  out  on  the  other 
side  undaunted. 

"Well,  let's  get  a  good  doctor,"  Phanor  went  on. 
"  I  wonder  if  this  fellow  knows  anything  about  his 
business." 

"  Everybody  speaks  very  highly  of  him." 

"Yes;  well.  Let's  give  the  boy  every  chance  we 
can.  It  don't  happen  often.  Crickey,  I  hope  he's  a 
good  husky  youngster!  A  robust  physique's  a  great 
thing;  gives  a  man  a  start.  He'll  never  get  anywhere 
down  at  the  Mill  if  he's  got  poor  health  to  contend  with. 
Why  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  idea  to  get  one  of  those 
spring  exercisers,  like  they  have  down  at  Hawley's, 
and  have  him  do  exercises  in  the  morning,  and  at  night, 
too,  perhaps?  I'm  going  to  teach  him  to  shoot;  he 
ought  to  know  how  to  handle  a  gun." 

"  You  foolish  goose !  You  talk  as  if  he  were  a  man 
already.  What  do  you  know  about  handling  a  gun? 
You  didn't  ever  shoot.  You'd  have  shot  your  silly 
brains." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Phanor.  "  I  guess  not.  That's 
just  it;  it's  a  good  thing;  makes  a  boy  self-reliant; 
teaches  him  the  value  of  life.  If  I'd  had  a  gun  when 
I  was  a  boy  I'd  know  more  than  I  do." 

"  Too  bad  you  didn't." 

"What  does  a  woman  know  of  that  sort  of  thing, 


52  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Isabel?  The  boy's  got  to  be  brought  up  to  know  how 
to  take  care  of  himself,  hasn't  he?  I'm  not  going  to 
have  him  pampered.  You'd  make  a  molly-coddle  of 
him.  That's  ridiculous,  Isabel." 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  don't  want  him  to  be  a  molly- 
coddle. But  it  seems  to  me  you're  making  your  plans 
pretty  far  ahead,  when  the  baby  isn't  born  yet.  It 
might  be  a  girl,  too." 

"  I  think  it  will  be  a  boy,"  Phanor  said,  as  if  he 
were  glad  that  they  were  making  definite  progress  at 
last. 

"  Well,  you  can't  tell.  But  you'd  better  wait  till  you 
see,  I  should  think,  before  you  go  ahead  and  make  a 
great  coarse  shooter  out  of  him." 

"Humph!  I  suppose  so.  Only,  if  he's  a  good  husky 
youngster  with  red  blood  in  him,  I'm  going  to  make 
him  into  a  man  with  red  blood  in  him,  too.  None  of 
your  Sissies  for  me!  I  was  just  speaking  figuratively, 
of  course.  He  don't  have  to  have  a  gun,  of  course. 
Only  it's  a  good  thing  for  a  boy  to  know  how  to  handle 
a  gun.  Why  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  idea  to  get  one  of 
those  little  steel  targets  and  set  it  up  in  the  yard? 
Crickey,  I'd  enjoy  that,  too!  I'm  going  to  have  great 
times  with  that  boy  of  ours!  " 

Isabel  finished  the  garment  she  was  making,  and 
put  it  away  in  the  basket.  This  was  out  of  her  world. 
Phanor,  of  course,  understood  such  things.  She  was 
being  asked  to  let  her  baby  go  out  into  the  world  and 
be  made  gruff  and  rational  .  .  .  yet  he  would  be  a 
source  of  happiness  to  her,  even  then  .  .  .  coming 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  53 

back  into  the  world  where  he  had  been  born,  a  gen- 
erous, kindly  man,  fond  of  his  silver-haired  mother,  and 
keeping  his  baby-love  in  his  eyes.  Yet  here  was  a 
basket,  barely  two  feet  long  .  .  . 

"  I'm  through  for  to-night,  Phanor.  Let's  go  to  bed 
early." 

Phanor  rose  and  started  off  about  the  house  on  the 
round  of  going-to-bed  duties,  thinking  of  his  plan  for 
a  rifle  range  in  the  yard,  where  the  neighbors  would 
see  old  Enday  and  his  son,  making  fine  sport  together, 
like  the  good  fellows  they  were. 

Isabel,  too,  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  began  to 
think  of  her  baby  as  a  boy.  It  may  have  had  an  in- 
fluence; at  any  rate,  the  child  that  came  to  the  Endays 
was  a  boy,  with  red  blood  in  him,  as  the  years  were 
bound  to  show. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AMOS  ENDAY  was  born  on  the  seventh  of  July, 
1875- 

His  parents  called  him  "baby"  as  long  as  they 
dared,  because  they  had  a  stubborn  notion  that  he  was 
no  more  than  a  sudden  materialization  of  their  mar- 
riage, changing  to  Amos — which  was  the  name  of  his 
great-grandfather,  who  had  been  the  whaling  captain 
out  of  Nantucket — only  when  he  began  to  show  a  ten- 
dency to  become  an  actual  person. 

This  tendency  frightened  them  badly;  to  call  the 
baby  Amos,  to  see  him  grow  to  a  recognition  of  him- 
self as  Amos,  to  find  him,  in  the  course  of  years,  actu- 
ally becoming  a  person  named  Amos  Enday,  filled  them 
with  apprehension.  At  times  it  seemed  as  if  it  would 
have  been  better  not  to  have  given  him  a  name  at  all; 
that,  surely,  would  have  prevented  his  becoming  any- 
body. People  would  ask,  "  And  who  are  you,  my  little 
man?  "  and  this  materialization,  this  symbol,  would 
pipe  up  and  say,  "  I'm  Amos  Enday."  It  was  prepos- 
terous. Why,  they  might  have  chosen  a  different 
name  for  him,  and  then  where  would  this  "  Amos  En- 
day  "  have  been?  If  they  had  altered  his  name  to 
'Rastus,  they  would  almost  have  expected  him  to 
change  color  during  the  night,  and  greet  them  as  a  pic- 

54 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  55 

caninny  in  the  morning.  They  called  him  "  son  "  for 
a  time,  and  tried  to  fight  it  off  by  that  road.  But  the 
fact  remained:  they  had  a  personality  on  their  hands. 
However,  there  was  no  stopping  it  now;  the  boy 
was  born,  they  had  called  him  Amos,  and  he  was  being 
Amos.  They  braced  themselves,  and  prapared  for  the 
worst. 

Amos  found  himself,  from  the  very  first,  in  a  world 
of  wonder  and  glory.  But  he  also  found  himself  sur- 
rounded by  dangers,  and  he  fought  against  them.  He 
used  to  speculate  on  the  beginnings  of  his  own  indi- 
vidual life,  feeling  that  if  he  could  discover  where  he 
came  from  he  might  gain  a  vague  idea  of  where  he 
was  meant  to  go. 

He  could  see  one  trivial  incident  standing  out 
through  the  fog  of  his  early  experience,  and  this  he 
came  to  consider  the  dawn  of  his  self-consciousness. 

He  could  remember  running  around  the  parlor  in  a 
circle,  carrying  a  small  stick  cross-wise  in  his  mouth, 
like  a  horse's  bit,  and  shouting  the  words  "  Ninety- 
five,  ninety-six,  ninety-seven,  ninety-eight,  ninety- 
nine,  'hundred,"  in  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  thunder- 
ing tones,  in  time  to  the  beats  of  his  foot-falls  on  the 
floor.  This  activity  left  in  his  mind  an  impression  of 
grandeur.  His  resounding  steps  were  stirring,  like 
charging  horses,  or  freight-cars;  the  stick  in  his  mouth 
gave  him  an  unhuman,  machine-like  feeling;  the  num- 
bers from  ninety-five  to  one  hundred,  which  he  had 
no  doubt  just  learned  from  his  patient  mother,  had  a 


56  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

mighty  sound.  He  remembered  the  glorious  unreality 
of  it;  it  was  like  Roman  Legions  on  the  march.  He 
remembered  how  his  father  had  stopped  his  antics. 

"  Amos,  quit  that  racket!  You're  not  to  run  in  the 
parlor;  you'll  break  something.  And  a  stick,  too! 
Here,  give  me  that  stick.  First  thing  you  know  you'll 
run  it  down  your  throat." 

Amos  stopped,  gave  up  his  stick,  and  saw  the  hero- 
ism fade  out  of  life.  He  took  up  separately  each  asser- 
tion that  Phanor  had  made:  how  did  his  feet  wear  out 
the  carpet  any  faster  than  great  Mrs.  Fleetwood's  feet, 
when  she  came  to  call?  Father  didn't  put  her  out  of 
the  parlor.  Why  didn't  he?  What  was  he  going  to 
break?  The  piano?  How  could  he  run  the  stick  down 
his  throat  if  he  held  it  cross-wise  in  his  mouth? 

He  got  an  experimental  stick  from  the  wood-box, 
and  putting  the  end  of  it  against  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
tapped  it  gently  with  his  hand.  It  would  be  terrible  to 
be  gouged  in  the  mouth  with  a  stick.  If  he  had  been 
holding  it  that  way,  he  might,  possibly,  have  run  it 
down  his  throat;  but  not  when  he  held  it  cross-wise 
between  his  teeth.  He  put  it  between  his  teeth  and  fell 
elaborately,  to  test  his  theory,  and  pinched  his  lip  so 
painfully  as  he  rolled  on  the  carpet  that  he  had  to 
struggle  to  keep  back  a  cry.  But  he  was  satisfied  that 
it  was  an  entirely  different  sort  of  injury  from  the  one 
which  his  father  had  predicted. 

He  would  have  liked  to  argue  the  question,  point  by 
point,  to  see  which  was  right.  But  he  knew  that  his 
father  would  be  "  busy  "  which  was  the  same  thing  as 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  57 

being  cross,  and  he  would  merely  be  scolded  for  talk- 
ing nonsense. 

Well,  there  it  was;  as  soon  as  he  found  something 
splendid,  it  turned  out  that  there  was  something  the 
matter  with  it.  He  never  thought  of  the  incident  with- 
out rage  boiling  up  within  him  at  having  been  so  bul- 
lied out  of  an  intellectually  unassailable  position. 

A  short  time  before  Amos  was  born,  Mrs.  Fleetwood 
had  told  Isabel  that  she  too  was  expecting  a  baby. 
This  was  rather  disconcerting  to  Isabel,  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  announcement  was  made  took  away 
none  of  the  spirit  of  emulation  which  it  implied.  It 
was  a  challenge.  Isabel  accepted  it,  since  there  was 
no  other  way,  but  she  hoped  very  much  that  Mrs. 
Fleetwood's  baby  would  not  be  a  boy;  then  there  would 
be  an  obvious  difference,  and  the  inevitable  process  of 
comparison  would  be  more  difficult. 

Of  course,  in  the  face  of  the  impending  mystery,  the 
two  women  could  not  wage  war  quite  unregardful,  as 
if  the  having  of  babies  was  no  more  than  the  adding 
of  ornaments  to  the  parlor;  they  really  achieved  a 
feeling  of  sister-hood  which  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble to  them  in  their  ordinary  relations,  and  spent  long 
hours  in  talk  together,  like  girls  with  dolls.  Neither 
of  them  knew  exactly  what  she  was  doing,  and  the  fact 
of  their  common  reliance  on  Nature  brought  them  to- 
gether as  nothing  else  had  ever  done  before,  or  ever 
did  again. 

As  for  the  fathers,  they  were  proud  and  delighted 
at  the  idea  of  having  children,  and  let  it  go  at  that. 


58  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

But  on  the  subject  of  the  coming  financial  burdens 
they  opened  their  hearts  to  each  other  with  passionate 
abandon. 

But  Mrs.  Fleetwood's  baby  was  a  boy  also — "  by 
chance,"  as  Isabel  said — and  the  battle  began  again  in 
the  field  of  training  and  education. 

Naturally  Amos  did  not  know  of  these  competitive 
relations  between  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Fleetwood. 
Dick  occurred  in  Amos'  life  like  a  natural  and  unpre- 
meditated fact;  Dick  simply  was  there.  For  Dick, 
Amos  was  there,  also.  Though  Mrs.  Fleetwood  suc- 
ceeded in  making  a  rather  chesty  young  man  of  Dick, 
the  two  got  on  well  together  until  they  were  separated 
by  the  progress  of  events. 

Once  Amos  mentioned  at  home  that  he  thought  Dick 
had  a  nicer  mother  than  he  had  himself. 

"Why,  Amos!  "  cried  Isabel,  very  much  shocked. 
"How  can  you  say  such  a  terrible  thing  as  that? 
What  gave  you  that  idea,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

He  managed  to  convey  the  idea  that  he  had  noticed 
a  certain  lack  of  restraint  between  himself  and  Isabel 
which  did  not  obtain  between  Dolly  Fleetwood  and 
Dick.  Isabel  was  angry  at  this,  and  took  it  out  on 
Amos,  telling  him  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  him- 
self for  not  knowing  that  no  one  on  earth  ever  had  a 
better  mother  than  his  own.  Amos  saw  that  it  was 
natural  and  right  for  parents  to  boast  of  their  good- 
ness, and  call  upon  God  to  witness  that  no  one  sur- 
passed them. 

He  began  to  suspect  that  perhaps  Mrs.  Fleetwood 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  59 

was  on  her  good  behaviour  when  he  was  present  since 
she  couldn't  help  regarding  him  as  an  ambassador  and 
a  spy  from  Isabel. 

He  took  Dick  into  confidence  on  this  point,  and 
asked  for  particulars.  He  had  noticed,  on  the  oc- 
casions when  Dick  came  to  his  house  to  play,  that  Isa- 
bel was  exceedingly  polite  to  Dick  when  the  time  came 
to  send  him  home,  but  that  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  she 
was  very  curt  and  business-like  about  putting  away 
the  toys;  in  like  manner,  Dick  said  that  Dolly  was  a 
model  of  courtesy  in  shooing  Amos  out  of  her  house, 
but  that  she  swept  up  the  steamships  and  railroad 
yards  like  an  avenging  cyclone  when  he  had  gone. 

When  he  got  home  that  night  he  watched  his  mother 
carefully  for  a  long  time,  and  decided  that  she  was 
right  about  being  the  best  mother  a  boy  ever  had,  for 
he  liked  her  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  even 
unrestrained  as  she  was. 

Amos  had  once  been  given  a  book  which  described 
the  play-room  of  a  little  girl  who  lived  in  England;  it 
was  a  room  made  especially  for  her,  and  had  a  frieze  of 
lovely  animals,  following  one  another  endlessly  around 
the  walls;  it  contained  the  pictures  that  she  liked  best, 
selected  by  herself  in  the  shops;  her  favorite  books 
were  in  the  corner,  in  her  own  book-case;  it  was  spe- 
cifically mentioned  that  she  might,  if  she  wished,  draw 
pictures  on  the  floor  with  chalk.  To  Amos,  this 
sounded  like  a  fairy-tale  of  the  most  improbable  sort. 
He  played  on  the  floor  of  his  mother's  sewing-room; 


60  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

the  wall-paper  had  a  stupid  border  of  armorial  bear- 
ings; the  pictures  were  stuffy  and  unreal,  meaning 
nothing;  his  books  were  kept  downstairs  in  the  gen- 
eral family  book-case;  the  floor  was  carpeted,  and  he 
could  not  even  "  litter  "  it.  He  used  to  wonder  what 
it  would  be  like  to  leave  one's  toys  out  on  the  floor,  in 
their  proper  places,  over  night,  or,  when  one  felt  in  the 
mood,  to  look  at  a  picture  one  liked. 

He  supposed  that  these  things  were  true  for  the  lit- 
tle English  girl  because  she  was  in  a  book.  He  liked 
her,  in  the  book,  because  of  her  room,  and  because  of 
the  fact  that  her  stockings  were  always  carefully 
pulled  up — a  virtue  which  he  could  not  himself  achieve 
—and  he  resolved  to  marry  her,  if  ever  he  should  catch 
her  out  in  real  life. 

But  real  life,  even,  seemed  to  be  different,  for  her. 
She  used  to  look  from  her  window  into  a  sort  of  street 
that  was  called  a  "  crescent."  There  were  no  Cres- 
cents in  Wilton.  She  took  delight  in  gardens,  and  in 
visits  to  the  sea;  she  had  a  nurse  and  a  governess  and 
a  pony-chaise,  and  she  used  sometimes  to  get  the  gar- 
dener to  let  her  look  at  the  bees.  "  The  "  bees — as  if 
bees  were  a  matter  of  course.  There  was  a  haunting 
and  sweet  strangeness  about  it  all. 

Or  was  it  he  himself  who  was  different?  Certainly, 
if  that  were  true,  it  was  a  disadvantage;  he  was 
plainly  below  the  level  of  normal  happiness.  Yet  the 
Fleetwoods — for  example — didn't  have  any  bees,  and 
they  never  went  to  the  sea.  The  sea.  What  was  it, 
really?  His  mother  had  told  him  that  his  great-grand- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  61 

father  for  whom  he  was  named,  had  been  to  sea.  But 
that  was  long  ago,  and  his  great-grandfather  was  now 
dead.  Had  everything  happened  long  ago?  Or  was  it 
still  going  on — somewhere? 

In  the  quest  for  the  reality  of  happiness,  he  used  to 
get  what  he  could  from  the  parlor.  It  was  the  very 
best  thing  in  the  Endays'  life,  and  where  else  was  he 
to  look? 

The  red  jardiniere  made  a  sound  like  a  temple  bell 
when  he  tapped  it  with  his  knuckles,  and  the  rubber- 
plant  that  sprouted  from  it  could  be  used  as  a  tropical 
jungle  where  cannibals  lived  and  where  hunters  made 
monkey's  throw  cocoanuts  at  them.  The  dim  space 
under  the  table  could  be  made  to  echo  with  the  roars 
of  tigers ;  the  parlor  table  was  better  than  other  tables 
in  the  house  for  such  purposes,  because  it  had  a  for- 
bidden, secluded  atmosphere,  like  a  real  forest.  But 
it  mussed  his  blouse  to  crawl  into  the  forest.  The 
carved  lines  on  the  back  of  the  patent-rocker  were 
entertaining,  because  he  could  begin  on  one  side  and 
follow  through  with  his  thumb  nail  all  the  intricacies 
of  the  pattern  until  he  came  out  on  the  other  side, 
having  gone  through  every  line  and  not  using  any  line 
more  than  once.  There  was  something  mysterious 
about  this.  But  to  reach  the  top  of  the  chair-back  he 
had  to  kneel  in  the  seat,  and  that  was  bad  for  the 
springs.  The  peacock  feathers  could  be  taken  out  of 
the  jars  to  be  admired  and  dreamed  over,  and  he  found 
that  they  were  not  difficult  to  balance  on  his  nose. 


62  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

But  there  was  always  the  danger  that  he  would  stag- 
ger into  something  and  break  it.  The  piano  had  keys 
made  of  elephant's  teeth,  grown  yellow  "  because  he 
had  no  mother  to  make  him  brush  them;"  Amos  used 
to  strike  the  lower  notes  reverently,  thinking  sadly  of 
the  little  orphan  elephant,  who  had  given  up  his  teeth, 
and  was  now  wondering,  perhaps,  where  they  were. 
But  the  sound  of  the  notes  was  likely  to  be  annoying  to 
people  who  were  "  busy." 

The  picture  called  "Alone"  was  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  in  the  world.  It  was  lovely  and  sad. 
Amos  never  discovered  what  it  meant,  but  it  filled  him 
with  emotion.  He  used  often  to  climb  on  a  chair  to 
be  near  the  lonely  girl;  he  alternated  between  a  feel- 
ing of  gratitude  that  he  was  not  thus  alone,  as  night 
was  coming  on,  with  only  one  oar,  in  the  middle  of  a 
swamp,  and  a  wish  that  he  might  be  in  exactly  that 
forlorn  position,  and  be  so  beautiful  and  so  melan- 
choly. He  would  think  of  her  when  he  was  lonely  in 
bed;  she  knew  that  he  was  there,  and  he  knew  that  she 
was  in  the  parlor  in  her  boat,  and  that  made  things 
seem  easier. 

But  he  could  not  always  take  away  with  him  the 
imagination  of  the  parlor.  There  was  too  great  a  con- 
trast between  the  parlor  and  the  world. 

If  he  could  make  the  parlor  come  true!  If  only  he 
could  get  his  hands  on  the  ...  on  the  ...  on  what 
the  parlor  represented  ...  on  what  the  parlor  should 
have  represented.  If  only  .  .  . 

But  the  parlor  was  surrounded  by  a  fence  of  pro- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  63 

hibitions.  All  the  interesting  things  were  labeled 
"  Do  not  touch."  The  parlor  door  was  open,  some- 
times, to  the  body,  but  it  was  never  open  to  the  spirit. 
It  was  fine  and  wonderful,  but  it  was  not  for  such  as 
Amos. 

"  Amos!  "  said  his  mother.  "  How  many  times  must 
I  tell  you  that  you're  not  to  lie  on  the  floor  in  the  par- 
lor? Look  how  you've  mussed  up  your  clean  blouse!" 

"  What  are  you  up  to  now,  Amos?  "  This  was 
Phanor  speaking.  "  You're  not  to  climb  in  that  chair; 
you'll  break  the  springs.  Now  mind  what  I  say." 

"  When  you're  older,  Amos,  and  can  behave  like  a 
gentleman,  I've  no  objection  to  your  sitting  in  the  par- 
lor as  much  as  you  like." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  that  was  a  fine  place  to  play 
with  trains!  In  the  parlor!  " 

When  Phanor  said,  "  First  thing  you  know  you'll 
have  that  rubber-plant  over  onto  the  floor,"  it  was  a 
sign  that  Amos  was  invoking  the  spirit  of  the  jungle. 

Naturally  enough,  he  banished  the  parlor  from  his 
affections  as  soon  as  he  could  afford  to  do  so. 

The  evening  was  the  best  part  of  the  day.  When 
Phanor  came  home  from  the  Mill,  Amos  went  to  meet 
him  in  the  hall.  Phanor  was  usually  glad  to  get  home, 
and  that,  in  itself,  seemed  to  brighten  things  up.  Some- 
times, too,  he  had  presents  in  his  pockets;  a  bag  of 
lemon  drops,  or  a  ball,  which  "  must  not  be  thrown  in 
the  house,"  or  some  thread  bobbins  from  the  Mill. 
The  bobbins  were  of  varying  sizes;  the  larger  ones 
made  good  locomotive  wheels  or  lumber  trucks,  and 


64  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

the  smaller  ones  were  useful  as  kegs  of  nails,  drums,  or 
mortar-tubs.  Phanor  always  handed  them  out  rather 
contemptuously. 

After  he  had  emptied  his  pockets,  Phanor  changed 
his  clothes,  to  emphasize  the  difference  between  Home 
and  the  Mill,  and  then  they  had  supper.  Supper  was  a 
pleasant  meal,  because  they  were  all  together  at  it,  in 
a  more  real  sense  than  at  breakfast  or  lunch,  and  be- 
cause it  was  a  prelude  to  the  delightful  evening  of 
reading  that  was  to  come. 

As  soon  as  the  supper  dishes  were  cleared  away, 
Isabel  read  to  Amos  from  the  book  which  he  had  se- 
lected while  she  had  still  been  busy  in  the  kitchen. 
The  land  of  wonderful  things  was  reached  again 
through  books,  and  Amos  would  sit  at  his  mother's 
feet,  his  chin  on  his  hands,  listening  and  dreaming,  and 
wondering  how  the  books  could  manage  to  know  such 
delightful  people  and  places. 

What  an  extraordinary  thing  it  was  that  there  should 
be  a  charcoal-burner,  who  lived  in  a  wood  and  had  a 
beautiful  daughter!  How  wonderful  that  there  should 
be  a  gentleman  from  Ceylon  who  lived  across  the 
street!  Where  were  the  vast  ranges  of  snow-capped 
mountains,  the  great  rivers,  the  philosophers  and  the 
poets  and  the  ruined  castles,  the  bells  that  rang  for 
Dick  Whittington,  and  the  people  who  never  seemed 
to  have  to  think  of  bed-time? 

He  used  often  to  interrupt  when  things  were  not 
sufficiently  clear,  and  he  absorbed  the  explanations 
that  were  given  him  as  eagerly  as  he  absorbed  the 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  65 

story  itself,  but  it  never  entered  his  mind  to  attempt  to 
put  into  words  the  main  question:  how  could  it  be  true 
that  there  should  be  two  worlds,  one  filled  with  ro- 
mance and  wonder,  and  the  other  hard  and  literal  and 
common-place,  and  that  both  these  worlds  should  be 
true? 

To  be  sure,  one  of  the  worlds  was  in  books.  But  the 
books  always  told  exactly  where  things  happened.  It 
was  in  London,  or  in  the  country,  or  somewhere — 
somewhere  else.  What  was  the  trouble?  Alice  had 
solved  the  problem  by  going  down  the  rabbit-hole  and 
through  the  looking-glass.  But  that  was  not  a  true 
story.  There  were  so  many  things,  and  the  days  were 
going  by,  and  he  was  missing  them! 


He  had  asked  his  father  and  mother  to  help  him  ex- 
plain the  paradox,  but  they  never  had  any  answer 
ready  at  the  time,  and  later,  when  they  had  thought 
up  something  to  tell  him,  he  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten about  it.  Moreover,  they  were  eager  to  put  it  ouc 
of  their  minds  as  soon  as  he  would  let  them,  for  it  was 
simply  another  annoying  manifestation  that  there  were 
now  three  Endays  living  at  97  Elm  Street,  instead  of 
two.  After  all  they  had  done  to  prevent  it — hopes  and 
prayers  and  steady  resistance — here  was  Amos  Enday, 
going  his  own  way! 

"  I  don't  know  what's  got  into  that  boy,"  Phanor 
said  to  Isabel,  one  night  after  Amos  had  gone  to  bed. 
"He  sits  and  thinks  so  much." 


66  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"I  know,"  Isabel  answered.  "I  wonder  what  he 
thinks  about?  " 

"  It's  beyond  me.  I  caught  him  at  it  to-night,  and  I 
said  c  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,'  and  what  do  you 
suppose  he  asked  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    What?  " 

"  Well,  he  said,  '  Where  do  people  that  write  books 
live?  '  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  an  idiotic  question?  " 

"  I  wonder  what  made  him  ask  that?  What  did  you 
tell  him?  " 

"  I  said  they  lived  up  in  trees,  at  first.  And  you 
ought  to  see  the  way  his  eyes  stuck  out!  Then  I  saw 
he  was  serious,  and  I  told  him  they  lived  in  houses, 
same  as  other  people.  And  then  he  said,  '  What 
houses?  '  Of  all  the  fool  questions!  " 

"  Well,  you  know  how  boys  are,"  Isabel  said. 

"  Yes,  but  ...  I  don't  know.  I  wonder  if  he'll  ever 
amount  to  anything,  when  he  grows  up?  " 

Isabel  smiled  in  a  far-away  manner. 

"  He  will,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  But  it  seems  such 
a  long  road!  " 

"  How  does  Amos  get  on  with  his  lessons?  "  Phanor 
asked  suddenly,  one  evening. 

"  Oh,  good  enough.  He's  not  a  dull  boy.  But  I 
think  he  ought  to  be  going  to  school  in  the  fall." 

"  Oh,  Lord!  More  trouble!  I  haven't  got  any  con- 
fidence in  that  MacReady  woman,  I  tell  you  that 
much." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  67 

"  Everybody  speaks  very  highly  of  her,  though." 

"  Sap-head!  "  said  Phanor. 

"Well,  of  course,  Dolly's  going  to  send  Dick  to 
Waverly." 

"  Good  idea.  I'll  bet  they  know  something,  down 
there." 

"  It's  not  in  our  ward,  you  know;  it'll  cost  extra." 

"  What's  the  cost  got  to  do  with  it  when  the  boy's 
whole  future's  at  stake,  Isabel? "  Then  Phanor 
thought  for  a  moment.  "  I  suppose  Miss  MacReady 
knows  as  much  as  any  of  them  though,  at  that." 

"  How  you  talk!  What  have  you  got  against  Miss 
MacReady,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

"  She's  a  sap-head.  The  whole  lot  of  them  are  sap- 
heads." 

"Why,  Phanor!  She  keeps  a  good  school;  every- 
body says  that.  The  children  are  nice  children.  Oh, 
I  saw  three  of  the  cunningest  little  tots  go  by  the  house 
to-day!  They  had  their  books  done  up  in  straps. 
They  live  over  the  bridge;  I  see  them  nearly  every  day. 
And  the  water  was  running  down  the  gutter  and  they 
stopped  to  watch  a  stick  go  down  and  they  laid  their 
books  right  down  smack  in  the  mud." 

"  Dirty  little  Micks!  "  said  Phanor. 

"  I  went  out  and  spoke  to  them.  '  For  shame/  I 
said.  '  To  put  your  nice  books  down  in  the  mud  like 
that!  ' " 

"  What  did  they  say?  " 

"  They  ran." 


68  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Phanor  pondered  a  moment,  wondering  why  people 
couldn't  have  some  consideration  for  other  people's 
feelings. 

"  Well,"  he  said.  "  I  hate  to  have  a  boy  of  mine 
go  out  in  the  street  and  play  with  the  dirty  Micks.  It 
seems  a  shame.  The  boy's  so  sensitive  to  influences. 
But  I  suppose  there's  no  way  out  of  it." 

"  Then  do  you  think  he  ought  to  go  to  school  hi  the 
fall?  " 

"  What  do  you  ask  me  for?  It's  you  that's  got  the 
boy's  bringing-up  in  charge,  not  me." 

"  What  an  idea!    Your  own  boy!  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  keep  running  to  me  for?  I 
don't  know  what  conditions  he's  going  to  meet,  do  I?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  we  kept  him  home  as  long  as  we 
did;  I  think  he'll  get  ahead  faster,  now.  But  he's  over 
nine;  I  think  he  ought  to  go  in  the  fall." 

"And  play  with  dirty  Micks  in  the  street?  No, 
thanks!  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  him  to  do?  " 

"  Do?    Do?    There  you  go  again!  " 

"  I  should  think  you'd  take  some  interest,  Phanor." 

"That's  ridiculous,  Isabel!  Just  because  I  don't 
want  to  have  the  boy  made  a  hoodlum  of,  you  say  I 
don't  take  any  interest.  I  didn't  say  I  thought  he 
ought  to  go  to  school,  did  I?  I  just  suggested  that  he 
asked  a  lot  of  fool  questions.  And  you  try  to  make 
out  I  want  to  chase  him  out  of  the  house." 

In  short,  it  was  decided  to  send  Amos  to  school  in 
the  fall. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  69 

The  day  came  when  the  matter  was  brought  to  the 
attention  of  Amos  himself.  Isabel  asked  him  what  he 
would  think  of  putting  away  his  toys  and  going  to 
school  like  other  boys.  He  was  delighted  with  the  idea, 
and  accepted  it  with  enthusiasm,  though  he  didn't  quite 
like  to  put  away  his  toys.  Still,  it  would  mean  that  he 
was  grown  up,  and  that  would  be  worth  everything. 

But  as  the  day  drew  nearer,  and  became,  from  a 
vague  "  some  day,"  to  "  some  day  next  week,"  and 
finally  to  "  to-morrow,"  he  felt  his  courage  slip  away 
from  him.  It  was  a  terribly  important  thing  to  be 
grown  up;  he  had  no  faith  in  his  ability  to  act  the 
part.  It  was  evident  that  it  would  make  him  over 
into  an  entirely  different  sort  of  person,  and,  in  his 
heart,  he  was  not  sure  that  he  could  stand  being  dif- 
ferent. At  least,  not  just  yet.  These  things  always 
came  upon  one  when  one  was  so  desperately  unpre- 
pared for  them! 

On  the  great  morning,  which  arrived  inexorably,  in 
spite  of  his  prayers  for  delay,  he  was  hustled  through 
an  unusually  punctual  breakfast,  and  dressed  in  his 
best  clothes — new  corduroy  trousers,  a  fresh  white 
blouse  with  a  broad  stiff  collar  and  a  flowing  red  tie. 
As  his  mother  knelt  on  the  floor  before  him  to  give  the 
final  brush  to  his  yellow  curls,  he  noticed  that  she 
looked  grave,  which  she  wouldn't  have  done,  he  rea- 
soned, unless  there  had  been  some  basis  for  his  own 
apprehension.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  help  him 
out  of  the  pit  of  fear  into  which  he  was  slipping.  He 
did  not  know,  of  course,  how  frightened  she  was. 


70  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  made  a  last  stand. 

"Mother,"  he  said.  "  Couldn't  I  just  go  on  being 
your  little  boy?  " 

Isabel  smiled  tenderly  and  patted  his  shoulder. 

"You'll  be  mother's  little  boy  just  the  same,  dar- 
ling." 

Somewhat  comforted  by  that,  but  trembling  and  on 
the  edge  of  tears,  he  took  her  hand,  and  they  set  out. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  school-house  was  a  dingy  brick  building 
about  ten  blocks  from  home,  set  on  the  very 
edge  of  town,  at  the  end  of  Arbor  Avenue,  in  a  district 
where  vacant  lots  and  curbless  streets  were  struggling 
for  supremacy  with  cheap  yellow  tenements  in  the  first 
rawness  of  their  youth.  It  was  a  region  new  to  Amos, 
and  it  filled  him  with  horror;  the  tenements  seemed 
unreal  and  terrible,  because  none  of  the  people  he 
knew  lived  in  such  houses,  and  the  forlorn  and  muddy 
streets  seemed  pitiful  lonely  and  unprotected. 

But  he  forgot  his  terror  in  contemplation  of  the 
school-house  itself.  It  stood  bleakly  alone  in  the  waste, 
a  cheap  candy-store  across  the  road  from  it,  a  brown 
wooden  chapel  on  the  corner  near  it;  these  buildings 
constituted  a  group,  huddled  together  as  if  for  mutual 
protection,  in  a  primeval  world.  It  was  hard  to  rea- 
lize that  the  school-house  was  the  center  of  the  knowl- 
edge of  all  the  Universe.  In  fact,  passing  strangers 
had  several  times  mistaken  it  for  an  Insane  Asylum. 

He  held  tight  to  his  mother's  hand  as  they  crossed 
the  play-ground.  As  he  looked  at  the  boys  and  girls, 
he  was  fascinated  by  the  thought  that  they  were 
school-children,  that  they  knew.  They  watched  him 
with  curiosity  as  he  passed;  he  thought  he  saw  con- 
tempt in  their  eyes,  and  a  challenge. 

71 


72  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  was  taken  into  a  dim  office,  which  smelled  of 
chalk-dust,  and  introduced  to  Miss  MacReady,  the 
Principal,  a  hard,  grim  woman,  who  was  poor  in  spirit, 
and  resented  it. 

"  I  hope  you're  going  to  be  a  good  boy,"  she  said, 
putting  her  large  firm  hand  under  his  chin. 

He  nodded  his  head  free  of  her  grip,  wondering  why 
she  thought  there  was  a  possibility  that  he  would  not 
be  a  good  boy. 

"  I  hope  you'll  learn  a  great  deal,"  Miss  MacReady 
continued. 

He  was  very  much  interested  in  all  the  arrange- 
ments. Everything  was  different,  and  strange.  When 
the  principal  spoke  to  him,  he  had  just  noticed  that  the 
walls  of  the  room  were  entirely  surrounded  with  black- 
boards, so  that  her  remark  seemed  like  an  interrup- 
tion; he  was  wondering  if  these  blackboards  were  the 
school  equivalent  of  the  floor  in  the  little  English  girl's 
room,  on  which  she  could  draw  with  chalk. 

Then  the  bell  rang,  and  the  children  came  trooping 
noisily  in;  the  Principal  and  Isabel  and  Amos  set  out 
down  a  long  corridor,  passing  the  doors  of  school- 
rooms. On  the  walls  of  the  corridor  were  pictures;  he 
noticed  a  portrait  of  George  Washington,  and  a  picture 
of  a  lion  in  a  cage — the  cage  was  made  of  slats  of 
wood,  screwed  to  the  frame  of  the  picture — and  a 
scene  representing  some  women  in  filmy  clothes,  danc- 
ing under  trees.  Later  he  found  that  none  of  the  chil- 
dren ever  looked  at  them,  and  he  never  did  so  himself. 

He  was  presented  to  Miss  Whittier,  who  also  made 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  73 

some  remark  about  being  good,  and  then  he  was  left 
by  Miss  Mac  Ready  and  his  mother — who  gave  him  a 
farewell  smile  to  which  he  was  too  miserable  to  re- 
spond— at  an  inky  little  desk  in  Grade  Two,  behind  a 
girl  with  yellow  pigtails,  who  kept  turning  around  to 
look  at  him.  His  mother  had  gone.  He  supposed  that 
all  the  other  children  had  come  alone  when  they  had 
first  begun  school,  and  it  amazed  him  to  think  of  their 
fortitude.  He  would  never  be  able  to  manage  things 
like  that. 

He  learned  that  the  girl  in  front  of  him  was  named 
Harriet.  Miss  Whittier  seemed  kind,  and  took  an  in- 
terest in  making  him  feel  comfortable  and  at  home. 
She  announced  to  the  room  in  general  that  he  was 
Amos,  a  new  boy,  whom  she  hoped  they  would  like,  and 
they  all  turned  and  stared  at  him,  nearly  killing  him 
with  embarrassment.  He  wondered  if  he  could  ever 
hope  to  be  like  other  people. 

There  was  some  talk  of  addition  and  subtraction, 
and  vague  hints  with  respect  to  knowledge  of  penin- 
sulas and  rivers,  but  in  these  activities  Amos  had  no 
part.  He  sat  at  his  desk  at  "  position,"  with  his  hands 
folded  before  him,  and  listened.  He  had  been  prepared 
to  put  his  trust  in  school,  and  school  seemed  unwilling 
to  accept  him.  He  was  out  of  it  forever. 

When  whispering  recess  came,  it  was  worse.  The 
buzz  of  conversation  did  not  include  him.  Miss  Whit- 
tier  raised  the  window  to  expectorate;  he  watched  her 
in  a  dreadful  fascination.  Noticing  his  look,  and  seem- 
ing to  resent  it,  she  suggested  to  the  class  that  the  new 


74  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

boy  was  lonely,  and  that  it  would  be  nice  if  some  of  the 
other  boys  would  speak  to  him.  Amos  smiled  grate- 
fully at  her. 

The  boy  across  the  aisle  moved  into  Amos'  seat,  an- 
nounced that  his  name  was  Bert,  and  suggested  that 
they  make  spit-balls. 

"  Make  'em  small,"  he  said.  "  We'll  put  'em  in  our 
pencil-boxes,  to  keep.  They  get  hard.  I  got  a  nair- 
gun." 

Amos  chewed  paper  eagerly,  and  made  spit-balls. 
When  Miss  Whittier  wasn't  looking,  Bert  flipped  one 
across  the  room,  and  Amos;  in  plain  sight,  was  about  to 
follow  his  example,  when  Bert  stopped  him,  and  said 
that  you  weren't  supposed  to  throw  spit-balls. 

"  I  got  my  pencil-box  full,"  he  said.  "  She'd  be 
mad.  Let's  get  yours  full.  You  got  a  good  'raser. 
Gimme  it?  " 

Amos  nodded.    "  You  can  have  it,"  he  said. 

The  windows  were  opened  wide,  and  they  all  stood 
up  and  did  exercises.  Amos  managed  fairly  well  to 
keep  in  time  with  the  rest,  and  wondered  what  connec- 
tion this  activity  would  ultimately  be  revealed  to  have 
with  the  process  of  knowing  all  about  everything. 

Then  whispering  recess  was  over,  and  Bert  moved 
back  to  his  own  seat,  taking  with  him  Amos'  new 
eraser,  which  his  mother  had  given  him.  This  made 
him  very  unhappy.  Still,  it  had  bought  him  Bert's 
friendship.  He  had  managed  to  get  himself  included 
in  the  school.  He  sat  again  at  "position,"  thinking 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  75 

that  Bert  was  the  finest  person  he  had  met  in  the  whole 
outside  world. 

The  session  closed  with  singing.  Amos  found  the 
place  in  the  book,  though  he  could  not  make  out  the 
words  at  the  speed  with  which  they  were  sung.  He 
sat  listening  to  the  shrill  chorus.  This  was  fine.  They 
sang  of  the  loveliest  things  in  the  world;  a  song  which 
asserted: 

"  The  summer  time  is  coming, 
The  Spring  is  on  the  wane  .  .  ." 

a  sentiment  which  filled  Amos  almost  to  bursting  with 
a  cloudy  idea  of  the  beauty  of  life.  How  lovely! 
"  The  Spring  is  on  the  wane!  "  This  was  fine. 

But  it  had  to  end.  They  all  stood  up,  did  the  "  I 
pledgallegiance  tomy  flag,"  the  doors  were  opened  by 
Tony,  the  boy  who  sat  in  the  corner  seat,  and  the  room 
full  marched  out,  two  by  two,  to  the  coat-racks  in  the 
hall. 

Amos  saw  that  he  was  going  to  learn  all  about  every- 
thing. This,  he  thought,  was  what  he  had  been  waiting 
for.  It  might  have  been  better,  to  be  sure,  if  he  had 
been  put  in  touch  with  it  sooner.  But  he  was  in 
touch  with  it  now.  He  had  found  the  Great  World. 

He  was  through,  now,  with  Home.  Now  came 
school.  His  loyalty  was  divided;  he  now  had  two  pre- 
ceptors, instead  of  one.  They  taught  him  different 
things,  and,  since  he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  which 


76  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

of  them  to  trust,  he  spent  six  lonely  years  in  deciding 
to  distrust  them  both.  He  was  heart-broken  at  the 
thought  of  turning  away  from  any  one  or  anything  that 
would  accept  his  affection,  but  there  seemed  no  help 
for  it. 

Well,  if  it  had  to  be  hard,  let  it  be  hard.  They 
would  find  that  he  could  go  through  with  it,  in  spite  of 
everything. 

He  ran  home  as  fast  as  he  could  go,  thinking  how 
delighted  his  mother  would  be  when  he  told  her.  They 
would  talk  it  over  together,  and  get  things  straight  to 
start.  They  would  get  things  straight,  and  then  .  .  .  ! 

He  came  bursting  into  the  house  by  the  front  door, 
calling  for  his  mother.  She  answered  from  the  kitchen. 
For  a  second  he  stood  silent.  How  should  he  begin? 
It  was  so  tremendously  important  to  begin  at  the  proper 
place,  and  he  knew  so  little  how  to  select  the  proper 
place.  If  he  could  get  this  first  gesture  to  come  right 
now,  at  this  supremely  important  moment,  then  the 
whole  of  life  would  be  solved. 

He  arrived  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Mother,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Whittier  spits  out  the 
window." 

Isabel  was  obviously  surprised. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  guess  not,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  she  does,  too,"  Amos  insisted.  "  In  whisper- 
ing recess.  I  saw  her.  It's  three  minutes.  She  put 
up  the  window  like  this  .  .  ."  He  began  to  illustrate. 

Isabel  thought  best  to  forget  her  incredulity. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  77 

"  Have  you  been  a  good  boy?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Mother's  little  school-boy,"  Isabel  said. 

Amos  stared  back  at  her.    What  had  gone  wrong? 

"  Did  you  forget  your  cap?  " 

"  It's  on,"  said  Amos,  putting  up  his  hands  to  his 
head. 

"  Yes;  well,  take  it  off  in  the  house,  my  son.  Run 
upstairs  and  change  your  clothes.  Mother's  put  every- 
thing out  on  the  bed.  Fold  the  things  neatly,  remem- 
ber." 

Amos  wandered  off  upstairs  and  took  off  his  best 
clothes. 

Here  was  bad  news,  to  be  sure.  There  had  been 
some  mistake.  It  had  all  been  so  wonderful,  so  filled 
with  promise  .  .  .  but  you  couldn't  get  around  the 
Conspiracy.  People  just  wouldn't  tell. 

He  went  down  to  the  parlor,  and  pushed  himself 
back  into  a  deep  corner  of  the  sofa.  It  couldn't  be 
that  he  was  the  only  one  who  saw  things  to  be  ex- 
plained. No;  it  was  just  that  they  would  not  tell. 
Why,  they  would  not  even  confirm  his  suspicion  that 
there  was  something  to  tell  about!  Some  vast,  all- 
including  Something,  the  understanding  of  which  would 
make  all  plain.  You  couldn't  get  around  the  Con- 
spiracy. 

They  had  all  seemed  to  know  about  it,  there  at  school. 
They  had  sung  a  song  about  "  the  Spring  is  on  the 
wane."  He  didn't  know  what  that  meant,  but  all  the 
rest  did.  He  tried  to  sing  it,  although  the  tune  had 


78  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

entirely  escaped  his  memory — Oh,  it  was  pitiful!  So 
great  and  glorious  an  idea,  so  close  to  the  heart  of  the 
matter,  and  he  could  come  no  nearer  to  it  than  this 
vague  meaningless  wail!  And  he  had  given  away  his 
new  eraser! 

When  Isabel  came  to  find  him,  he  was  on  the  edge  of 
tears. 

"  What's  the  matter,  little  man? "  she  asked. 
"  Something  gone  wrong?  " 

"  Nothing,"  Amos  sobbed. 

"  Try  and  tell  mother  all  about  it." 

Well,  perhaps  he  could  trust  her  after  all  these 
years;  perhaps  it  was  not  too  much  to  hope  that  he 
could  begin  again.  Before  that  thought,  his  tears 
vanished. 

"  We  did  '  I  pledgallegiance  tomy  flag  '  in  school,"  he 
said.  "  When  the  boy  opens  the  doors,  and  it's  over, 
we  all  stand  up,  like  this,  and  we  go  like  that,  and  we 
say  '  I  pledgallegiance '  and  go  get  our  hats.  Bert's 
got  a  nair-gun." 

"  Who's  Bert?  " 

"  Boy  by  the  name  of  Bert,"  Amos  explained. 
"  What  does  it  mean, '  I  pledgallegiance  '?  " 

Isabel  rose  and  gave  the  salute.  "  I  pledge  al- 
legiance to  my  flag,  and  the  Republic  for  which  it 
stands  .  .  ." 

"  Yes!  "  cried  Amos  excitedly.  "  We  did  like  that! 
What's  it  for?  " 

"  It  means  the  United  States,"  Isabel  said. 

She  knew,  all  the  time! 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  79 

"  We  sang  a  song  about  the  Spring  is  on  the  wane," 
he  went  on.  "  What  does  it  mean?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  that  song,"  Isabel  said. 
"  How  does  it  go?  " 

Amos  began  his  dreary  chant,  and  Isabel  was 
forced  to  interrupt. 

"  Well,  Mother's  got  to  go  get  supper  now." 

Amos  followed  out  to  the  kitchen,  and  took  his  seat 
by  the  window,  asking  questions,  to  which  Isabel  flung 
replies.  She  wasn't  trying  to  answer  anything,  but 
only  to  return  each  shot.  He  struggled  on  for  a  time, 
but  at  last  gave  up. 

He  had  a  revival  of  hope  when  he  heard  his  father's 
step  in  the  hall.  Phanor  wasn't  likely  to  be  communi- 
cative, but  some  hints  might  fall. 

"  Hello,"  said  Phanor.    "  Been  to  school,  hey?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Amos. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  learn  to-day?  " 

What  had  he  learned!  Here  was  a  question!  It 
seemed  that  the  best  reply  would  be  "  Everything," 
and  yet  that  seemed  far  from  the  truth,  too.  He  cast 
about  in  his  mind  for  something  that  should  be  an 
adequate  symbol  of  his  achievements,  but  he  had  to 
hurry,  because  Phanor  was  nearly  out  of  his  coat  and 
was  taking  the  newspaper  from  his  pocket,  and  the 
time  was  short. 

"  We  learned  about  a  istum,"  he  said. 

"  A  what?  " 

"  A  istum,"  Amos  repeated.  "  It's  a  narrow  land 
with  water." 


8o  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  mean  an  isthmus." 

"  Yes,  sir;  an  Is  Must.  Where  is  one?  "  He  had  an 
idea  that  he  might  go  out  after  supper  and  look  at  one. 
It  couldn't  be  true  that  geography,  too,  was  all  some- 
where else. 

"  Well,  Siam's  one,"  Phanor  said. 

"  What's  Siam?  " 

"  It's  an  isthmus,  young  feller,"  said  Phanor,  and 
unfolded  his  paper. 

During  supper  Amos  was  silent.  The  worst  of  it  was 
that  he  had  no  real  grievance.  All  his  questions  had 
been  answered.  He  had  been  able  to  call  for  answers; 
it  was  explanations  that  he  couldn't  get.  They  must 
see  what  he  wanted.  Well,  he  would  find  out  from 
some  one;  Bert,  perhaps.  And  school  had  just 
begun. 

He  was  sent  to  bed  early,  "so  as  to  have  a  clear 
head  for  school."  That  must  mean  that  he  was  to  find 
the  explanation  for  himself,  and  that  he  might  expect 
it  to  come  from  school.  Well,  then. 

He  dropped  off  to  sleep  with  somewhat  the  same 
feeling  that  Columbus  must  have  had  when  he  went  to 
sleep  on  the  night  of  the  third  of  August,  1492. 

School  was  rather  too  well  organized.  Being  good 
appeared  to  mean  obeying  the  rules,  and  the  rules,  al- 
most without  exception,  were  stupid — they  were  mere 
obstacles.  When  he  found  that  there  was  a  fairly 
large  group  of  boys  whose  aim  in  life  was  to  break 
the  rules,  and  that  this  group  included  all  the  boys 


8i 

whose  respect  he  cared  for,  and  who  had  won  his  own 
respect,  he  allied  himself  in  thought  and  action  with 
the  party  which  so  well  expressed  his  resentment. 

He  admired  these  boys  because  they  were  acting  as 
he  felt.  They  were  against  the  Conspiracy. 

He  soon  came  to  see  that  there  was  no  need  to  try 
to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  trouble,  for  the  world  was 
full  of  it,  and  the  sooner  he  learned  to  face  it  and  get 
through  with  it,  the  better. 

The  chief  trouble,  in  those  early  school-days,  was 
that  caused  by  going  to  school  cross-lots. 

It  was  strictly  forbidden,  because  the  lots  were  filled 
with  roving  bands  of  Micks.  But  Amos  knew  the 
Micks  as  friends.  His  father  and  mother  did  not  seem 
to  grasp  the  adequacy  of  this  reason — as  they  saw  it, 
he  couldn't  possibly  know  and  like  the  Micks,  who 
were  not  real  boys,  but  attributes;  symbols  of  wicked- 
ness, evil  associations,  and  God  knows  what. 

Time  after  time  he  was  called  into  the  parlor  to  be 
scolded.  One  after  another  the  arguments  against  the 
lots  and  the  Micks  were  brought  out;  patiently,  or  im- 
patiently, the  moral  was  pointed.  Amos  was  as  obsti- 
nately opposed  to  this  reasoning  as  his  parents  were 
obstinately  in  agreement  with  it. 

For  who  will  deny  life  because  of  arguments? 

In  summer  the  lots  were  green  and  lovely — expanses 
of  waving  meadow  and  brown  marsh  lands,  with  swal- 
lows and  flowers  and  soft  winds — and  in  that  divinity 
he  felt  himself  divinely  included.  "  The  Spring  is  on 
the  wane;  "  that  was  what  it  meant:  the  sunlight  was 


82  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

on  the  lots.  From  such  a  feeling,  could  he  be  turned 
aside  because  of  arguments? 

In  Winter  the  lots  were  a  dreary  waste — brown  stub- 
ble and  patches  of  snow,  forlorn  hay-ricks  standing  in 
solemn  desolation — and  Nature,  shut  up  to  sleep  for 
the  Winter,  waiting  for  Spring  to  touch  the  wane  again, 
was  outside  and  beyond  him,  and  he  felt  complete  in 
himself.  Was  it  to  be  expected  that  precepts  would 
cloud  such  a  vision? 

Across  the  lots  ran  a  small  river,  a  coffee-colored 
stream  that  wandered  sedately  from  somewhere  to 
somewhere.  By  the  respectable  route  to  school,  the 
river  was  crossed  by  the  Arbor  Avenue  Bridge,  but  to 
go  to  school  cross-lots,  another  bridge  was  used — a 
shaky  structure  of  clattering  planks,  such  as  might  be 
built  by  pioneers,  whose  only  object  in  life  was  to  cross 
a  river. 

Just  beyond  the  bridge,  a  path  started  out  across 
the  lots.  At  the  left  stood  a  solitary  house,  alone  and 
dreary,  with  no  smoke  ever  arising  from  its  chimney, 
and  no  one  ever  appearing  near  it,  though  it  was  sup- 
posed that  a  hermit  lived  there.  On  the  right  ran 
Arbor  Avenue,  and  the  backs  of  the  barns  that  be- 
longed to  its  houses  formed  the  boundary  between  the 
great  world  and  the  respectable  town.  Ahead  was  the 
school-house,  crouching  with  its  back  to  the  lots  and 
protecting  itself  from  the  wilderness  by  a  high  board 
fence.  The  path  ran  from  the  shaky  bridge  to  the 
corner  of  the  school  fence;  a  caravan  route  through 
the  desert,  a  trail  across  the  plains! 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  83 

On  the  path,  there  were  three  fences  to  cross,  a  small 
drainage  canal,  not  too  wide  to  jump,  a  clump  of  tall 
trees  to  be  traversed — robbers  here,  and  elves  and  the 
spirit  of  the  forest — and  a  sun-warmed  gravel  pit. 
Near  school  time  there  were  always  other  boys,  ahead 
to  be  called  to,  behind  to  be  waited  for,  and  the  path 
itself  always  furnished  things  to  talk  about  and  things 
to  do. 

Here  the  Micks  met.  Amos  was  one  of  the  crowd. 
He  did  not  like  them,  as  individuals,  because  he  did 
not  like  noise  and  dirt  and  brutality,  but  they  were  the 
boys  who  went  to  school  cross-lots,  and  nothing  else  in 
life  was  half  so  fine  as  that. 

The  Micks  were  freed  from  the  restraints  of  Re- 
spectability; they  could  think  of  things  to  do  that 
were  quite  beyond  the  grasp  of  ordinary  imaginations. 
Phanor  and  Isabel  might  storm  and  argue  and  plead, 
but  the  wind  in  the  tall  tree-tops  was  speaking  of  far- 
off  things,  and  Romance,  bright  and  glorious,  was 
waiting  in  the  gravel-pit. 

In  spite  of  Amos'  care  to  go  around  to  the  front  door 
at  school,  as  if  he  had  come  by  the  approved  route,  he 
was  often  caught,  and  singled  out  from  his  companions 
for  punishment. 

"  Amos,"  said  Miss  MacReady.  "  Don't  you  know 
that  your  father  and  mother  don't  want  to  have  you 
come  to  school  cross-lots?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  your  mother  would  say  if  she 
knew?  " 


84  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  She'd  say  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for 
doing  such  a  thing."  Amos  knew  both  sides  of  this 
dialogue  by  heart. 

"  Well,  why  do  you  persist  in  it,  then?  Don't  you 
know  that  the  nice  boys  don't  come  that  way?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Do  you  enjoy  being  punished  for  it?  Do  you  think 
I  like  to  have  to  talk  to  you  this  way?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  think  you  would." 

Miss  MacReady  smiled  broadly,  but  Amos  didn't 
see  it,  so  that  she  might  as  well  not  have  smiled  at  all. 

"  You're  not  a  bad  boy,  are  you?  " 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  then,  run  along,  and  try  to  behave." 

Often  he  was  caught  as  he  arrived  home,  and  he  was 
cornered  on  the  parlor  sofa  to  listen  to  the  pleadings  of 
his  mother.  Once  or  twice  he  had  tried  to  explain  why 
it  was  that  he  preferred  the  romance  and  adventure  of 
the  lots,  even  though  they  brought  him  into  contact  with 
the  Micks.  But  though  Isabel  seemed  to  hear  what 
he  was  saying,  she  did  not  understand  it;  though  she 
caught  a  hint  of  the  spirit  of  it,  she  did  not  see  how  it 
could  possibly  be  anything  in  the  life  of  her  own  son. 
He  gave  up  trying  to  explain.  Much  as  he  would  have 
liked  to  share  it,  he  was  forced  to  keep  it  to  himself. 

It  was  evident  that  one  must  choose  between  Re- 
spectability and  happiness.  When  the  natural  an- 
tipathy between  the  Micks  and  Respectability  broke 
out  into  open  warfare,  as  sometimes  happened,  Amos 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  85 

was  always  on  the  side  of  Respectability.  By  his  com- 
rades he  was  somewhat  admired,  in  fact,  for  daring  to 
lead  a  double  life. 

But  Phanor  and  Isabel  knew  nothing  of  it.  They 
saw  that  they  could  do  nothing  more  than  point  out 
to  him  his  own  folly  and  wickedness.  They  did  not 
know  that  he  had  made  a  cold  and  deliberate  calcula- 
tion to  get  what  he  could  from  life.  He  had  never  had 
the  courage  to  tell  them. 

How  could  he  take  pleasure  in  things  of  which  they 
did  not  approve?  Why  must  they  explain  to  him,  over 
and  over  again,  that  their  way  was  best?  Why  could 
he  not  see  that  they  were  safe,  and  he  was  not,  and  that 
therefore  he  must  be  wrong?  How  could  any  one  worth 
bothering  about  be  so  blind  as  not  to  follow  the  lead  of 
Phanor  and  Isabel  Enday?  Most  of  all,  their  own  son? 

It  wasn't  that  they  had  forgotten  what  they  were 
like  when  they  were  children.  They  could  remember 
getting  into  just  such  scrapes  as  this,  out  of  sheer  per- 
versity. But,  of  course,  they  hadn't  gotten  in  quite  so 
deeply,  and  the  scrapes  weren't  quite  so  significant. 
Only,  now  that  they  were  older,  why  the  devil  couldn't 
they  be  believed  when  they  said  they  knew  what  they 
were  talking  about? 

They  were  desperate  with  worry.  They  prayed, 
they  threatened,  they  begged,  they  argued,  they  scolded 
— they  did  everything  but  think. 

Then,  when  it  seemed  as  if  matters  couldn't  possibly 
get  worse,  there  occurred  the  great  Battle  of  Wilson's 
Barn. 


86  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Coming  home  along  the  cross-lots  path,  one  day  in 
Spring,  Amos  met  Cliff  Smoot,  who  was  a  leader  among 
the  Micks. 

"  Come  on  over  to  our  house,"  Cliff  said.  "  All  the 
Army's  going  to  be  there." 

"  What  you  going  to  do?  " 

Cliff  leaned  close,  though  there  was  no  one  within 
half  a  mile. 

"  We're  going  to  kill  Bert  Wilson  and  Dick  Fleet- 
wood." 

"  You  can't  do  it." 

"  What's  the  reason  we  can't,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 
Cliff  asked,  haughtily. 

"  Bert's  gone  home  long  ago,"  Amos  said. 

"They're  going  to  play  in  Wilson's  barn.  We're 
going  to  attack." 

"  I  got  to  go  home." 

"  Well,  come  over  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Dopey  Higgins  appeared  on  the  trail  behind  them, 
and  ran  up,  calling  to  them  to  wait.  He  carried  in  his 
hand  some  object  that  swung  from  a  wire. 

"  I  got  a  stink-pot,"  said  Dopey,  arriving  breathless. 

"  That's  good,"  Cliff  said.    "Where'd  you  get  it?  " 

"Made  it,"  said  Dopey.  "  It's  got  everything  in  it. 
Smell." 

He  thrust  it  under  the  noses  of  the  two;  it  gave  forth 
a  horrible  putrid  stench,  and  both  boys  gagged  and 
turned  away. 

"  That's  great!  "  said  Amos. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  87 

"  Oh,  you  wait!  "  Dopey  cried.  "  You  wait  till  old 
Dickey  gets  this  in  the  side  of  the  puss!  " 

"  Come  on;  hurry  up,"  Cliff  said.  "  We  got  time  to 
make  some  more." 

The  three  set  out  along  the  trail,  Dopey  carrying 
the  stink-pot  at  arm's  length. 

When  they  crossed  Elm  Street  Amos  left  them. 

"  Hurry  up,  now,  and  get  over,"  Cliff  said. 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  can  come  to-night." 

"  Well,  try.    Don't  forget  Thursday." 

Amos  found  Isabel  in  the  kitchen,  making  dough- 
nuts. 

"  Mother,  can  I  go  over  to  Bert's?  " 

"  Yes,  dear.  Only  be  careful  of  your  clothes.  Keep 
out  of  the  barn." 

"  Can  I  have  a  doughnut?  " 

"  Yes,  dear.  Don't  you  want  to  take  one  for  each  of 
the  other  boys?  " 

Amos  took  a  handful  of  crisp,  warm  doughnuts,  and 
set  out  on  the  run  for  Wilson's  barn.  There  were  signs 
of  preparation  for  the  approaching  battle;  Dick  Fleet- 
wood  was  in  a  clump  of  alders  in  the  corner  of  the 
yard,  cutting  quarterstaves,  and  Kenneth  Rogers  was 
on  guard  at  the  great  barn  door.  The  Micks,  under 
the  personal  direction  of  Cliff,  were  organizing  their 
attack,  which  was  to  be  across  the  fence  in  the  rear. 

"Hey,  Amos!  "  shouted  Kenneth.    "  Hurry  up!  " 

Amos  arrived  at  the  door. 

"  Who  goes  there?  " 


88  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Friend." 

"  Advance,  friend,  and  give  the  counter-sign." 

"  St.  George  for  England." 

"  Gimme  a  doughnut.    Hey,  fellers,  here's  Amos." 

Amos  presented  himself  to  Bert,  the  Commander, 
and  gave  him  a  doughnut. 

"  We  got  you  and  me  and  Dickey  and  Ken  and  Phil 
and  the  two  girls,"  said  Bert,  reckoning  up  his  forces. 
"  We'll  kill  'em." 

"  We  ought  to  get  some  stink-pots,"  suggested  Amos. 

"  Oh,  gee;  yes!  "  cried  Bert.  "  The  girls  can  make 
'em." 

He  called  to  Dorothy  Wilson. 

"  Hey,  sis,,  want  to  make  some  stink-pots?  There's 
cans  in  the  second  stall,  and  you  can  get  the  fillers  in 
the  cow-shed.  Hurry." 

Dorothy,  with  Doris  Spencer,  accepted  the  halves  of 
the  remaining  doughnut,  and  disappeared  into  the 
stall,  where  they  were  heard  rummaging  about  in  their 
search  for  suitable  containers.  A  moment  afterwards 
they  repaired  to  the  cow-shed,  their  arms  filled  with 
cans. 

"  Let's  get  some  of  this  ammunition  up-stairs,"  Bert 
said.  "If  they  should  happen  to  capture  the  down- 
stairs, we  got  to  defend  the  hay-loft." 

A  trap-door  in  the  floor  above  was  opened,  and 
fruit-baskets  filled  with  mud-balls  were  hoisted  up 
with  rope  and  pulley.  The  upper  floor  of  the  barn,  a 
great  bare  room,  broken  up  only  by  the  heavy  timbers 
which  supported  the  roof,  was  a  veritable  arsenal; 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  89 

lath  swords  hung  in  racks  on  the  walls;  bean-pole 
lances  were  stacked  in  a  corner;  bills  and  halberds 
made  of  rake-handles  and  pitchforks  leaned  against 
the  columns;  while  in  the  center  a  great  pile  of  mud- 
ball  ammunition  was  piled  as  high  as  a  boy's  head. 
The  top  of  the  stairs  was  protected  by  a  portcullis, 
made  from  the  lid  of  a  piano-box,  which  could  be  raised 
and  lowered;  close  beside  it  lay  two  twenty-pound  iron 
dumb-bells,  in  position  to  be  rolled  down  upon  the 
heads  of  the  attackers. 

In  the  midst  of  this  the  boys  paced  up  and  down, 
telling  of  what  they  would  do  when  the  Micks  came, 
brandishing  their  weapons  in  illustration  of  their  boasts, 
and  pausing  now  and  again  to  hurl  jeers  and  insults 
from  the  back  windows. 

Dick  came  in  with  his  arms  filled  with  quarterstaves, 
which  he  passed  around;  Ken  followed  him,  dragging 
a  piece  of  water  pipe  which  might,  he  said,  "  come  in 
handy." 

"  I  locked  the  big  door,"  Ken  said.  "  Let's  shut  the 
portcullis." 

"  No ;  the  girls  are  down  there  yet,  making  stink- 
pots," said  Bert.  He  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs 
and  called  down  to  them  to  hurry. 

"  I  bet  Cliff's  afraid  to  come,"  said  Philip. 

"  Cliff  Smoot,  lost  his  boot,"  chanted  Bert  from  the 
window. 

"  I'm  going  up  to  the  cupola  and  spy  on  'em,"  said 
Dick.  He  mounted  to  the  cupola,  climbing  in  notches 
cut  in  the  king-post  of  the  roof-truss. 


90  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  had  barely  reached  the  cupola  when  the  fight 
began. 

The  girls,  to  get  more  light  for  their  work,  had 
opened  the  door  of  the  cow-shed;  when  Cliff  led  his 
men  over  the  fence,  in  the  first  step  of  his  campaign, 
the  unprotected  door  yawned  before  him,  an  unex- 
pected point  of  advantage.  The  Micks  dropped  their 
scaling-ladders,  and  charged  the  door.  Before  the  girls 
could  realize  their  danger,  Cliff  himself  appeared  be- 
fore them,  and  a  stink-pot  came  buzzing  through  the 
opening  and  crashed  against  the  opposite  wall.  Doris 
replied  with  their  own  product,  and  Dorothy,  against 
the  shower  of  sticks  and  mud-balls,  actually  managed 
to  close  the  door,  though  it  opened  outwards,  and  bolt 
it  in  the  face  of  the  leader.  The  shrill  squeals  of  the 
girls  announced  this  skirmish  to  the  leader  on  the  sec- 
ond floor,  and  a  moment  later  the  girls  came  breath- 
lessly up  the  stairs  and  gasped  out  the  news.  The 
portcullis  was  dropped  behind  them,  and  Cliff,  re- 
pulsed, reverted  to  his  former  plan,  and  turned  again 
to  his  scaling  ladders. 

Dick  threw  himself  full  length  on  the  floor  of  the 
cupola,  thrust  his  head  and  shoulders  down  through 
the  lubber-hole,  shouted,  "  Here  they  come!  They're 
trying  to  get  in  over  the  cow-shed  roof!  Here  they 
come!  "  and  disappeared  again. 

Above  the  cow-shed  roof  there  was  a  small  window, 
boarded  up  on  the  outside;  Cliff  and  his  men  arrived  on 
the  roof,  and  attacked  the  window  with  a  clothes-pole 
battering-ram. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  91 

Clouds  of  choking  dust  arose.  Every  one  was  mad, 
shrieking,  rushing  back  and  forth,  trying  to  injure  the 
invisible  enemy  by  absurd  devices  which  only  the 
frenzy  of  desperation  could  have  suggested;  the  air 
was  thick  with  whirling  swords  and  flying  spears  and 
clattering  mud-balls;  the  crash  of  the  battering-ram 
shook  the  building;  the  girls  screamed. 

The  head  of  the  ram  came  bursting  through  the 
boarding  of  the  window;  a  splinter,  two  feet  long,  went 
singing  across  the  room  and  struck  Bert  Wilson  full  in 
the  mouth;  down  he  went,  the  blood  dripping  from  his 
chin.  Panic  madness  swept  through  the  defenders; 
they  howled  with  rage,  and  threw  whatever  their  hands 
found  to  throw. 

"  Dirty  damn  Micks!  "  screamed  Dorothy  Wilson, 
and  whirled  a  stink-pot  at  the  face  of  Cliff,  appearing 
at  the  opening.  A  dozen  bean-pole  lances  choked  the 
space,  and  Cliff  vanished. 

Dick  appeared  again  at  the  lubber  hole  in  the  cupola 
floor,  screeching  till  he  skinned  his  throat. 

"They're  coming  up  over  the  big  roof!  "  he  yelled. 
"They're  coming  up  over  the  big  roof!  Gimme  some 
mud-balls!  Gimme  ammunition!  Quick!  They're 
coming  up  .  .  ." 

Something  pushed  him  violently  from  behind;  he 
toppled  through  the  opening  and  came  sprawling  down, 
head  first,  passing  in  the  air  the  basket  of  mud-balls 
that  was  being  handed  up  to  him.  He  fell  half  on  his 
feet,  staggered  for  a  second,  and  pitched  down  through 
the  open  trap-door  to  the  lower  floor  of  the  bam.  In 


92      THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

an  instant  he  was  on  his  feet  again,  running  in  crazy 
circles,  holding  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  his  scared  eyes 
staring  out  over  his  dirty  wrist. 

A  puff  of  smarting  white  smoke  came  down  through 
the  cupola,  and  a  red  glare  of  fire.  A  trunk  full  of 
blazing  hay  was  being  pushed  down  through  the  lub- 
ber hole.  It  fell,  split  open  on  the  floor,  and  roared. 
Ken  Rogers  rushed  at  it,  clawing  it  apart  with  his 
halberd. 

Through  the  smoke  Dopey  Higgins  appeared,  slid- 
ing down  the  king-post  from  the  cupola;  "  Now  we  got 
'em!  "  he  screamed,  balancing  on  the  cross  beam. 
Cliff,  behind  him,  leaned  in  at  the  lubber  hole,  pelting 
mud-balls. 

Amos  drew  back  and  sent  a  rake-handle  lance  flying 
at  Dopey;  it  struck  him  in  the  stomach,  doubled  him 
up,  and  knocked  him  off  the  beam.  He  fell,  clutching, 
into  the  midst  of  the  swarming  defenders,  who  seized 
and  bound  him. 

Bert,  in  the  background,  faintly  visible  through  the 
dust  and  smoke,  was  walking  aimlessly  back  and  forth, 
lifting  his  feet  high  in  pain,  mopping  the  blood  from 
his  face  with  his  hand. 

Down  below,  the  great  front  door  was  wide  open 
where  Dick  had  fled  for  home  with  his  dislocated 
thumb.  Ken  had  mastered  the  fire.  A  Mick  appeared 
at  the  opening  over  the  cow-shed  roof,  plucking  away 
the  tangle  of  spears  and  wriggling  through.  Doris  and 
Dorothy  rushed  at  him  and  scratched  his  eyes  and 
stole  his  cap. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  93 

Amos  struggled  up  the  center  column  of  the  barn, 
fell  upon  Cliff  with  his  lath  sword,  and  drove  him  from 
the  cupola  out  across  the  roof.  Cut  off  from  his  com- 
rades, Cliff  made  for  the  ladder.  Amos  ran  after  him, 
caught  the  ladder  and  threw  the  top  of  it  away  from  the 
eaves;  it  went  soaring  down  into  the  barn-yard,  Cliff 
still  clinging  to  it,  and  landed  on  the  pile  of  corn-husks 
at  the  foot  of  the  wall. 

The  battle  was  over. 

Amos,  tired  and  dusty,. went  home  to  supper,  think- 
ing that  the  affair  was  of  no  special  significance,  and 
settled  down  to  a  quiet  evening  of  reading  with  his 
mother. 

A  few  hours  later,  however,  Mr.  Wilson  called  to 
ask  if  any  one  had  been  injured,  and  thus  gave  away 
the  whole  horrible  truth.  After  Mr.  Wilson  had  gone, 
Phanor,  blazing  with  rage,  called  Amos  into  the  parlor, 
interrupting  Isabel's  reading,  and  found  out  that  Amos 
had  actually  been  in  the  fight. 

"  Why  can't  you  keep  away  from  those  dirty  Micks, 
I  wonder!"  Phanor  said.  His  round  face  was  glowing 
with  indignation,  and  his  mustache  stuck  out  like  a 
brush. 

"  I  wasn't  with  any  Micks.  I  was  with  Dick  and 
Phil  and  ...  » 

"  What's  the  sense  in  trying  to  tell  me  a  thing  like 
that?  Don't  I  know?  You  were  over  in  Wilson's 
barn,  weren't  you,  when  the  whole  thing  happened?  " 

"  Yes,  but  ...  " 

"  Well,  then." 


94     THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Isabel  had  come  to  the  door  of  the  parlor  to  assist. 

"  And  to  think  that  you'd  go  and  flatly  disobey  me, 
Amos!  "  she  put  in.  "  I  told  you,  word  for  word,  to 
keep  out  of  the  barn  and  not  to  muss  your  clean  blouse 
all  up." 

"  Oh,  he  don't  care  for  that!  "  Phanor  assured  her, 
sarcastically.  "  It  don't  matter  to  him  what's  said  to 
him.  Good  Lord,  boy,  I  should  think  you'd  want  to  be 
decent!  " 

"  I  wasn't  doing  anything,  I  tell  you!  " 

"Your  mother  told  you  not  to  go  into  the  barn, 
didn't  she?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't." 

"  Crickeyl  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it,  I  should 
like  to  know?  What  you  can  be  thinking  about  all  the 
time  I  can't  see,  for  the  life  of  me." 

"  Oh,  listen,  and  I'll  tell  you,"  Amos  cried.  "  I  was 
coming  home  from  school,  and  I  met  Cliff  Smoot,  and 
he  " 

-ll^     •     •     • 

"  I've  told  you  you  weren't  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  that  Smoot  boy,"  Isabel  said.  "  I  don't  approve 
of  him." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it  if  I  meet  him,  can  I?  " 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him?  "  Phanor  asked. 

"  In  the  lots,"  Amos  said,  before  he  thought. 

"  In  the  lots!  Good  God!  You've  been  told  to  keep 
out  of  the  lots.  I  wonder  why  the  devil  you  keep  on 
doing  things  you're  told  not  to!  " 

"  Well,  anyway,"  Amos  went  on,  "  Cliff  said  there 
was  going  to  be  a  battle,  and  he  wanted  me  to  go  and 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  95 

fight  with  them,  on  their  side,  and  I  knew  you  wouldn't 
want  me  to  and  I  said  I  couldn't  come  over,  and  then  I 
had  to  go  and  help  Bert  and  Dick  and  the  rest,  didn't 
I?" 

"  What's  the  reason  you  did? "  Phanor  asked. 
"  Walking  right  into  trouble!  " 

"  Oh,  have  I  got  to  explain  all  that?  "  Amos  ex- 
claimed, with  elaborate  weariness.  "  I  should  think 
you'd  be  glad  I  was  on  the  side  of  the  nice  boys." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  be  in  any  fights,  no  matter 
what  side  you're  on.  What  do  you  mean  by  fighting, 
hey?  " 

"  Oh,  I  guess  it  won't  hurt  me  any,"  Amos  said,  in- 
solently. "  I'm  used  to  fights." 

"Oh,  hush  your  jabber!  "  Phanor  cried.  "Of  all 
the  boys  you  could  play  with  you  have  to  go  and  pick 
out  the  lowest  rotten,  dirty  Micks.  What's  the  matter 
with  you,  anyway?  Are  you  a  degenerate,  or  what? 
No  more  decency  than  a  damn  dirty  pig!  " 

This  was  too  much  for  Isabel. 

"  Phanor!  Have  you  forgotten  yourself,  before  your 
own  child?  " 

"  Well,  what  does  he  mean  by  talking  that  way  to 
me?  "  Phanor  said,  sulkily. 

"  That's  no  excuse  for  your  shouting  so  the  neigh- 
bors can  hear." 

"  Young  reprobate!  " 

"  Well,  how  can  you  expect  .  .  ." 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  discovery  that  Amos, 
wearied  beyond  endurance  by  the  sickening  tedium  of 


96  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

a  fight  where  nothing  is  at  stake,  had  begun  to  cry. 
This  was  taken  as  a  confession  of  guilt  and  a  sign  of 
repentance,  and  Phanor  began  again. 

"Now,  I  want  it  understood  that  you're  to  keep 
away  from  that  Smoot  boy.  You  hear?  And  when 
your  mother  says  you're  to  keep  out  of  the  Wilson's 
barn,  I  want  you  to  do  it.  Now  let  that  end  it." 

"  All  right,"  Amos  said. 

"All  right!  "  Phanor  shouted,  his  anger  breaking 
out  again.  "  Let  me  tell  you,  if  I  hear  one  more  yip 
out  of  you,  off  you'll  go  to  the  Reform  School.  If 
they'd  take  you  in.  I  don't  know.  Maybe  the  Insane 
Asylum  .  .  ." 

Isabel  cut  this  short  by  suggesting  that  no  further 
good  could  come  of  talking,  and  hustled  Amos  off  to 
bed. 

Upstairs,  they  spent  a  further  half -hour  in  talk,  and 
Isabel  drove  home  the  moral  of  the  story.  Amos  was 
no  longer  to  permit  the  existence  of  a  world  which  per- 
mitted Micks.  When  he  said  his  prayers,  he  added, 
in  bitter  scorn,  "  God  make  me  like  Papa  and 
Mamma,"  but  the  implication  of  it  was  entirely  lost  on 
Isabel. 

She  went  down  stairs  to  Phanor,  and  told  him,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  was  sure  Amos  would  never 
be  so  naughty  again. 

Very  well  then;  that  was  all  Phanor  had  to  say. 

It  was  evident  that  Amos  had  lost  his  case.  All 
hope  of  establishing  the  romantic  and  the  adventur- 
ous was  forever  impossible.  He  had  been  caught  red- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  97 

handed;  he  had  said  absurd  things;  he  had  wept  in 
shame  and  true  repentance.    And  nothing  was  gained. 
None  the  less,  they  were  frightened;  they  called  for 
help.    They  called  on  Matthew  Burton. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MATTHEW  BURTON  was  Superintendent  of 
the  Sunday  School  and  Assistant  to  the  Pastor 
of  the  Congregational  Church. 

At  the  Seminary  he  had  been  forced  to  wait  on  table 
in  a  student  lodging  house  and  care  for  neighbors'  fur- 
naces, in  order  to  pay  his  way;  he  had  graduated  an 
obscure  and  underdone  young  man  with  a  love  of  the 
better  things  of  life  and  a  stubborn  determination  to 
declare  the  Glory  of  God. 

He  had  fought  with  Poverty,  in  the  Seminary,  and 
had  come  through  all  right;  this  was  God's  doing. 
After  graduation,  he  had  run  against  the  "hard 
world,"  and  had  found  it  soft  as  mush  in  comparison 
with  what  he  had  expected;  this  meant  that  God  was 
bearing  him  up  in  his  hands.  He  had  come  down  with 
tuberculosis,  but  some  philanthropic  persons  had  come 
forward  with  a  sum  of  money  which  they  had  col- 
lected, and  he  had  been  sent  to  Switzerland,  whence 
he  had  returned  cured — or  at  least  cured  for  all  prac- 
tical purposes — and  eager  to  enter  his  field  of  work; 
surely  it  must  be  evident,  from  all  this,  that  God  had 
plans  for  him. 

During  his  last  year  in  the  mountains,  he  had  writ- 
ten a  book  of  travel  sketches  and  reminiscences,  which, 

98 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  99 

though  it  did  not  sell  very  largely  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  group  of  kindly  people  who  had  paid  his  bills  and 
were  "  watching  his  career  with  interest,"  yet  neverthe- 
less served  to  preserve  his  self-respect.  He  had  then  set- 
tled down  in  Wilton,  where,  from  the  very  first,  he  had 
wanted  to  be,  and  had  obtained  the  post  of  Assistant 
to  the  Pastor,  at  a  salary  of  nine  hundred  dollars  a 
year,  which  he  had  accepted,  after  investigation,  as  a 
sign  that  God  was  lighting  his  path.  He  hoped,  some 
day,  to  be  able  to  return  to  Switzerland,  and  have 
another  crack  at  independence. 

The  people  of  the  church  admired  him  somewhat  for 
having  been  to  Europe;  there  was  something  appeal- 
ingly  quaint  in  the  idea  of  a  minister  going  abroad. 
But,  of  course,  he  had  had  his  poor  health  as  an  ex- 
cuse. 

He  used  to  say  that  he  had  been  through  hell — 
though  people  knew  that  he  was  only  joking — and  that 
it  was  God's  Grace  that  had  brought  him  back  to  Wil- 
ton. In  the  case  of  an  ordinary  civilian,  such  a  state- 
ment would  have  been  damaging,  for  a  man  couldn't 
go  through  hell,  even  in  fun,  without  bringing  back 
some  contamination  with  him.  But  people  could  trust 
a  minister,  they  supposed. 

He  was  pleasant  and  polite  and  zealous  in  his  duties, 
and  he  prospered.  He  had  married  Fredrika  Stubbs, 
a  plump  young  woman  from  his  home  town,  and  they 
had  a  little  daughter.  The  parish  could  ask  no  more. 
But  Burton  himself  felt  that  he  must,  in  some  way  or 
other,  achieve  success  as  a  man. 


ioo  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

One  Sunday  morning  after  the  episode  of  Wilson's 
barn,  Isabel  stopped  Burton  as  he  was  coming  out  of 
church,  and,  in  considerable  embarrassment,  made  her 
request. 

"  He's  such  a  nice  boy,"  she  said,  "  and  really  good, 
at  heart.  But  so  often  he  plays  with  children  who 
aren't  so  nice,  I'm  afraid,  and  they  lead  him  astray. 
I  was  wondering  if  you  couldn't  suggest  something 
that  would  make  him  a  little  more  careful  in  choosing 
his  associates." 

"  That's  such  a  common  difficulty  with  children, 
Mrs.  Enday,"  Burton  said. 

But  Isabel  wasn't  going  to  have  this;  hers  was 
an  individual  problem,  and  the  stock  methods  of 
training  ordinary  children,  in  the  mass,  wouldn't  an- 
swer. 

Burton  saw  his  error,  and  changed  his  tactics. 

"  I'm  sure  I  should  be  only  too  happy  to  do  what- 
ever I  can,"  he  said. 

"  That's  very  kind  indeed  of  you,"  Isabel  said.  "  If 
you  could  gain  his  confidence,  and  try  to  get  him  inter- 
ested in  other  things,  I'm  sure  we  could  work  wonders. 
He's  not  a  bad  boy,  only  it  does  seem,  sometimes,  that 
he  don't  follow  the  good  example  that's  been  set  for 
him,  but  only  the  bad  ones." 

As  she  went  home,  she  was  half  sorry  to  have  ap- 
pealed. As  soon  as  steps  were  taken  to  meet  the  diffi- 
culty, it  seemed  much  less  real.  But  the  boy's  whole 
future  was  at  stake,  and  she  couldn't  afford  to  be  too 
proud. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  101 

In  due  course,  Burton  called,  and  sat  for  some  time 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair  in  the  parlor,  slinging  phrases 
back  and  forth  and  keeping  up  a  pretense  of  not  know- 
ing why  he  had  been  summoned.  Then  Amos  came 
in  from  school,  and  was  called  in  to  be  presented. 

Isabel  said,  "  This  is  the  boy." 

"  I'm  very  pleased  to  meet  you,"  Burton  said,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  with  a  smile  of  friendship  that  went 
straight  to  Amos'  heart. 

"  Oh,  most  assuredly  I  should  let  him  come  to  Sun- 
day school,"  Burton  went  on,  continuing  the  conversa- 
tion with  Isabel. 

As  soon  as  Amos  had  confirmed  his  suspicion  that 
Burton  was  calling  in  an  official  capacity,  he  excused 
himself,  and  left  the  room. 

They  were  palming  off  a  minister  on  him,  were  they? 
Well,  he  would  show  them.  If  they  thought  he  was 
going  to  be  praying  all  the  time,  and  listening  to  ser- 
mons, and  add  the  problem  of  being  morally  good  to  the 
problem  of  being  ethically  good,  they  had  another 
think  coming.  Pish,  indeed!  To  know  Burton  as  a 
man  was  all  very  well,  and  would  give  him  opportunity 
to  learn  all  sorts  of  interesting  things  about  life  which 
Burton,  the  man — who  had,  among  other  things,  been 
to  Europe,  actually — would  be  able  to  teach  him;  but 
the  minister  part  could  go  and  pound  sand  in  a  rat-hole. 
He  didn't  want  any  old  minister  hanging  around  with 
his  "  yea,  verily,"  business. 

He  was  pleased  with  the  joke  of  stealing  some  real 
life  from  a  man  who  was  a  minister. 


102  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Amos  was  sent  to  Sunday  school.  Burton  had  gen- 
eral charge  of  the  school,  and  conducted  the  Young 
Men's  Bible  Class,  which  was  very  popular;  Amos  was 
too  young  for  the  Bible  Class,  but  he  was  put  in  a  pen 
with  some  other  boys  of  his  own  age  and  taught  all  the 
uninteresting  things  about  interesting  people,  and  Bur- 
ton often  threw  a  smile  in  his  direction,  and  sometimes 
stopped  to  talk  with  him  after  school. 

Burton  had  told  Isabel  that  he  didn't  want  to  arouse 
the  boy's  suspicions,  and  that  these  matters  must  not 
be  forced;  in  consequence,  the  acquaintance  between 
the  two  did  not  begin  to  become  friendship  until  Bur- 
ton, one  Sunday  morning,  suggested  that  they  walk 
home  together. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  think  me  a  fusty  old  minister/' 
Burton  said  as  they  set  out. 

Amos  regarded  this  remark  with  deep  suspicion. 
What  made  Burton  think  that  any  one  would  regard 
him  as  a  fusty  old  minister? 

"  You  know,  I'm  absolutely  shut  off  from  life,  in  my 
position,"  Burton  went  on.  "  As  soon  as  I  appear,  peo- 
ple change;  they  know  I'm  a  minister,  and  I  never 
find  out  what  they  really  think." 

Amos  considered  this  a  terrible  indictment  of  the 
ministry,  but  he  did  not  say  so. 

"  I  wish  you'd  help  me,"  Burton  continued. 

"  How  can  I?  "  Amos  asked. 

"  You  can  go  to  places  where  I  can't  be  seen.  You 
can  talk  to  people  on  their  own  ground.  With  me, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS         x  103 

people  aren't  natural.  Don't  you  see  what  a  tremen- 
dous help  you  could  be  to  me?  " 

"  I'll  help  you  if  I  can,"  Amos  said. 

Burton  stopped,  right  there  in  the  street,  and  grasped 
Amos  by  the  hand.  Amos  was  greatly  embarrassed; 
it  was  bad  enough  to  walk  home  from  Sunday  school 
with  a  minister,  without  being  seen  shaking  hands  with 
him,  for  no  apparent  reason,  right  in  broad  daylight. 

"  I  thought  we  were  going  to  be  just  friends,"  Amos 
said. 

"So  we  are!  Very  good  friends,  I  hope.  We'll  get 
to  understand  each  other.  But,  oh,  if  you  knew  the 
discouragement  of  trying  to  work  in  the  dark!  Of 
wanting  to  do  so  much,  and  being  blinded!  " 

Amos  thought  that  Burton  didn't  seem  very  willing 
to  accept  the  consequences  of  being  a  minister. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  general  talk,  they  separated 
at  the  corner  of  Burton's  street. 

Amos  liked  Burton,  and  hoped  for  something  very 
splendid  in  friendship  with  him;  he  was  a  grown  man, 
he  knew  all  about  the  things  that  Amos  wanted  to 
know,  he  had  been  abroad,  he  was  frank  and  friendly, 
he  had  read  books.  There  was  an  assumption  of  in- 
tellectual equality  between  them — something  that  had 
never  before  obtained  with  any  one.  It  was  too  bad 
that  this  must  all  be  spoiled  by  trying  to  patch  up  an 
alliance  which  had  for  its  object  helping  Burton  out 
of  the  hole  he  had  gotten  himself  into  by  being  a  min- 
ister. Still  it  was  better  than  nothing;  indeed,  there 


104  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

was  nothing  in  life,  so  far,  that  offered  greater  possi- 
bilities. 

When  he  got  home,  he  explained  his  lateness  by  say- 
ing that  he  had  been  walking  home  with  Burton,  and 
that  they  had  stopped  to  talk.  Isabel  said,  "  How 
lovely  1  I'm  so  delighted!  " 

Amos  didn't  want  to  accept  Burton  as  a  teaspoonful 
of  medicine  from  his  mother,  and  succeeded  in  avoid- 
ing him  for  two  solid  months. 

Amos  had  grown  up  in  his  father's  physical  image, 
rather  short  and  closely  knit,  though  he  was  thicker 
through  the  chest,  and  generally  stronger,  than  Phanor 
had  ever  been,  and  there  was  as  yet  no  stoop  in  his 
shoulders.  He  had  a  frank,  round  face,  and  rather 
merry  blue  eyes,  and  he  was  continually  bubbling  over 
with  energy  and  enthusiasm.  From  the  hearty  and  joy- 
ous manner  in  which  he  played  with  his  contempo- 
raries, Phanor  and  Isabel  saw  that  he  really  cared  for 
nothing  but  being  happy.  But  his  greatest  happiness 
always  drove  him  away  from  the  world  into  his  own 
friendly  company,  and  he  spent  his  most  serene,  and, 
he  thought,  his  most  significant  hours  alone.  They 
noted  this  tendency,  too,  and  worried  over  it. 

But  could  he  go  to  his  father,  or  Dick  Fleetwood, 
or  fuzzy  old  Miss  Mac  Ready,  and  confess  that  he 
thought  life  a  lovely  thing?  He  was  continually  mak- 
ing discoveries,  and  rushing  away  alone  to  think  about 
them.  There  seemed  no  other  way  to  make  life  real. 

He  was  by  this  time  in  the  seventh  grade  in  school, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  105 

popular  with  his  school-mates,  and  really  respected  by 
his  teachers.  Of  course,  they  kept  pecking  away  at 
him,  trying  to  awaken  him  to  a  sense  of  the  impor- 
tance of  learning  his  lessons,  trying  to  get  him  to  obey 
the  rules,  trying  to  drag  him  away  from  himself  by 
precept  and  punishment  and  sarcasm  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  But  he  held  the  whole  tribe  and  the  whole  sys- 
tem in  contempt,  because  it  had  not  demonstrated  its 
ability  to  explain  life.  He  ignored  them  rather  than 
fought  them,  and  this  being  plainly  evident,  they  were 
furious,  and  became  unreasonable.  He  was  hideously 
bored,  but  he  endured  it,  because  the  time  had  not  yet 
come  for  definite  action.  Some  day,  he  was  going  to 
grasp  life  by  the  door-knob  and  swing  it  around  his 
head — but  not  yet. 

In  the  meantime,  he  was  trying,  as  best  he  could,  to 
find  things  out  for  himself. 

Rose  Purdy  sat  across  the  aisle  from  him.  She  was 
a  dark-browed,  contemplative  mite,  with  stiff  braids 
and  straight  legs;  she  puckered  her  freckled  nose  when 
she  giggled,  and  her  black  eyes  gleamed  like  shiny 
shoe-buttons  when  she  was  mad;  she  was  irresistibly 
delightful. 

He  wrote  her  a  note,  in  which  he  told  her  that  she 
was  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world,  and  put  it  in 
a  conspicuous  position  on  her  desk  during  recess.  Bert 
told  Amos  that  he  had  been  a  fool  to  sign  it.  Amos 
did  not  think  so. 

He  watched  for  her  to  find  it,  expecting  her  to  be 
instantly  transformed  into  an  even  more  radiant  angel, 


io6  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

but  she  sniffed  when  she  read  it,  and  pretending  that 
she  thought  it  intended  for  somebody  else,  dropped  it 
on  the  floor,  where  it  lay  in  the  dust  with  Amos'  torn 
heart. 

Later  he  recovered  it,  under  pretext  of  picking  up 
his  ruler,  cleaned  it  reverently,  and  took  it  home  to 
show  to  his  mother.  Isabel  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed 
him.  "  Writing  letters  to  the  girls,  is  he?  "  she  said. 

The  next  day  the  news  of  Amos'  romance  had  spread 
through  the  school.  He  was  expecting  this,  and  was 
braced  for  the  storm  of  ridicule  which,  it  seemed  to 
him,  was  a  natural  consequence;  but  to  his  surprise, 
Rose  achieved  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  boys'  side  of 
the  school  somewhat  of  the  romantic  desirability  with 
which  he  had  invested  her.  An  association  was  formed 
for  the  purpose  of  kissing  her. 

Amos  didn't  like  that.  All  the  boys  had  "best 
girls,"  or  pretended  as  much;  he  wished  they'd  let 
Rose  alone!  He  couldn't,  obviously,  claim  her  as  his 
own  best  girl,  and  as  such  protect  her,  for  the  story 
of  his  rejection  was  public  property.  But  he  resented 
the  lack  of  dignity  inherent  in  kissing.  The  ideal  of 
love  was  so  much  finer  than  its  attainment!  How- 
ever, he  joined  the  association,  and  drew  lots  for  his 
turn.  But  the  first  boy  on  the  list  got  his  face  slapped, 
and  the  movement  died.  Amos  was  glad.  Anyway, 
Rose  wasn't  as  beautiful  as  Belle  Brooke. 

Once  this  had  begun,  there  seemed  to  be  no  end  to 
it.  Phanor  and  Isabel  had  been  fearing  it,  but  now 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  107 

that  it  was  upon  them,  there  seemed  nothing  they 
could  do.  Accordingly,  they  did  nothing,  and  took  out 
their  uneasiness  in  hoping  that  it  would  all  blow 
over. 

As  for  Amos,  who  could  not  think  of  his  parents  as 
real  people  at  all,  he  saw  that  they  did  not  feel,  and 
never  could  have  felt,  as  he  did.  He  could  no  more 
imagine  Phanor  in  love  than  he  could  imagine  him 
flying.  In  fact,  he  could  much  more  easily  imagine 
him  flying.  Isabel  sometimes  called  Phanor  "  dear," 
but  there  was  no  passion  in  that — nothing  like  what 
was  to  be  found  in  books — besides,  she  called  nearly 
everybody  dear.  At  first,  he  thought  that  they  never 
mentioned  love  because  they  were  unwilling  to  share 
their  knowledge  with  him;  later,  he  began  to  see  that 
they  were  most  probably  ashamed  of  it;  in  the  end, 
he  concluded  that  they  did  not  really  know  anything 
about  it. 

He  had  once  asked  Burton  why  unmarried  people 
never  had  children,  and  Burton  told  him  that  all  things 
were  pure  to  the  pure. 

A  few  months  after  this,  Isabel,  in  a  hesitating  and 
shame-faced  manner,  had  given  him  a  book  which  pur- 
ported to  explain  everything  which  he  had  so  labori- 
ously discovered  for  himself;  he  accepted  it  in  high 
hope,  but  the  hope  died  when  he  opened  it,  and  he 
was  enabled  to  add  nothing  to  what  he  already  knew, 
nor  anything  to  his  ability  to  interpret. 

He  had  thrashed  out  the  whole  matter  with  Dopey 


io8  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Higgins.  Dopey  had  put  forward  the  facts,  as  a  hy- 
pothesis. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  had  asked,  when  he 
finished.  "  Don't  you  believe  it?  " 

Amos  mumbled  something  about  God. 

"Sure;  what  the  hell!"  Dopey  had  exclaimed. 
"  God  gives  life  to  a  baby,  of  course." 

There  seemed  no  more  to  be  said.  Yet  it  was  strange 
that,  in  every  department  of  life,  there  should  be  this 
same  struggle  between  what  was  true  and  what  was 
permissible. 

The  study  of  geography  was  the  only  subject  of  his 
school  work  of  which  he  was  not  openly  contemptuous. 
But  he  did  not  stand  well  in  it;  he  never  achieved 
great  skill  in  telling  what  Borneo  was  like,  because  he 
was  too  thoroughly  occupied  in  wondering  what  it  must 
be  like. 

He  got  so  far  as  to  write,  "  The  chief  products  of 
Borneo  are  timber,  rice,  jungle  produce  .  .  ."  and 
Borneo  itself  lifted  a  shimmering  bulk  above  the  hori- 
zons of  far  tropic  oceans,  shutting  out  from  view  the 
Geography  Test  questions,  the  blackboard,  the  school- 
room .  .  . 

He  was  exploring  the  mountain  passes  in  the  interior. 
Great  bare  hills  lifted  their  huge  sides  above  him,  tow- 
ering to  the  sky;  in  the  still  valleys  lay  the  steaming 
forests  of  passionate  life — gross  flowers  and  mon- 
strous leaves — and  the  friendly  savages  came  out  into 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  109 

the  streets  of  their  villages  to  barter  jungle  produce  for 
looking-glasses  and  beads  ...  No;  he  had  a  house 
there,  a  substantial  house  of  stone;  it  stood  on  a  shoul- 
der of  the  hills,  looking  out  to  sea;  costly  rugs  covered 
the  floors,  and  the  walls  of  the  rooms  were  surrounded 
with  books;  a  table,  set  on  the  screened  verandah, 
shone  with  white  napery  and  gleaming  glass;  in  that 
oasis  which  he  had  made  for  himself  in  the  heart  of 
the  jungle  he  would  live  forever,  shut  in  with  the  joys 
of  his  own  outpost  of  civilization  .  .  .  Why  couldn't 
it  be  true?  Why  must  he  stay  shut  up  in  this  restless 
jail? 

He  stirred  in  his  seat  and  drew  a  long  breath  of 
agonized  impatience.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
impelled  to  activity  of  some  sort,  found  a  match,  drew 
it  out,  and  sat  regarding  it  ... 

No;  better  yet — he  was  on  a  tramp  steamer — a  roll- 
ing, roaring  tramp,  bound  round  the  world — and  the 
thud  of  her  screw  awoke  the  echoes  along  the  silent 
sunny  coasts  .  .  .  the  sea  was  blue,  blue  ...  he 
turned  his  ship  into  the  mouth  of  a  river  flowing  out  be- 
tween the  hills,  and  she  crept  slowly  in,  spreading  the 
ripples  from  her  bows  .  .  .  the  whistle  hooted,  and  set 
the  birds  to  screaming  in  the  forest  .  .  .  the  engine- 
room  bell  clanged  and  died  away  ...  a  wharf  ap- 
peared around  the  bend,  and  on  it  stood  a  great  ware- 
house, marked  "  Enday  "  in  glaring  white  letters,  and 
men  in  white  suits  ran  out  and  naked  natives  hauled 
ashore  the  lines,  and  they  asked  what  sort  of  trip  he  had 


no     THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

had,  and  what  was  the  news  from  home,  and  looked  seri- 
ously at  yellow  bills-of -lading  .  .  .  Fizzt!  Puff! 
Horror! 

He  had  picked  at  the  head  of  the  match  with  his 
thumb  nail,  and  lighted  it! 

He  blew  frantically,  and  a  column  of  smoke,  as  vast 
as  from  a  volcano,  rose  in  the  air  and  hung  betray- 
ingly  above  him.  He  glanced  up  at  the  teacher  with  a 
hunted  look;  he  was  the  center  of  a  ring  of  scared 
faces.  So  well  did  he  know  what  was  coming  that  he 
was  half  out  of  his  seat  before  he  heard  the  stern 
command. 

"  Amos,  leave  the  room !  " 

He  left  in  shame  and  terror.  Gee,  what  a  thing  to 
do!  He  had  lighted  a  match  in  school!  It  was  un- 
precedented. He  didn't  know  what  would  happen. 

He  stood  at  the  window  in  the  hall,  hidden  by  the 
long  row  of  hats  and  coats  that  hung  on  the  rack.  The 
window  was  open,  and  the  sweet  clean  air  of  Spring 
blew  on  his  cheek.  A  wagon  rattled  past  in  delicious 
and  unappreciated  freedom;  the  driver  leaned  forward 
to  club  his  horse  with  a  stubby  whip.  The  hall  was 
very  still.  Far  away  in  another  part  of  the  building 
the  children  were  singing  a  song  about  the  coming  of 
Summer;  he  remembered  the  song,  and  listened  sadly 
to  the  whack  of  the  ruler  on  the  desk,  beating  time. 
That  would  be  Miss  Whittier's  room. 

And  he  had  lighted  a  match  in  school!  He  would 
have  to  endure  a  tedious  interview,  and  be  kept  after 
school,  and  they  would  want  to  know  what  made  him 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS     in 

do  it,  and  where  the  match  had  come  from — as  if  he 
had  murdered  somebody  and  stolen  a  match! 

Anyhow,  it  wouldn't  do  to  be  caught  with  matches. 
He  hunted  through  his  pockets  and  found  another, 
which  he  threw  out  of  the  window  into  the  yard.  Just 
in  time.  He  heard  an  official  step.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
principal.  Perhaps  she  wouldn't  see  him.  He  fixed 
his  attention  on  the  row  of  hats  and  coats,  keeping 
very  still,  hardly  breathing  .  .  .  that  was  Louis  Tay- 
lor's fuzzy  cap;  he  seemed  to  see  Louis  under  it 
.  .  .  Too  late! 

"  Well,  Amos,  what  does  this  mean?  "  asked  the 
Principal,  glaring  down  at  him. 

Out  with  it,  he  thought. 

"  I  lit  a  match  in  school,"  he  said. 

"  You  did — what?  "  Her  amazement  was  gratify- 
ing, and  Amos  found  himself  becoming  interested  in 
the  impending  situation.  He  repeated  his  statement. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  that  was  a  pretty  foolish 
thing  to  do,  and  a  dangerous  thing,  too.  Tell  me  how  it 
happened." 

He  explained  as  best  he  could,  but  he  was  bored 
agam,  now  that  the  affair  promised  no  more  than  an 
ordinary  scolding.  He  took  pains  that  his  boredom 
should  be  evident  in  his  tone. 

"  And  this  was  in  a  Geography  Test?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  Amos,  why  won't  you  pay  attention  to  your  work? 
Your  father  and  mother  do  everything  for  you,  and 
you  have  good  teachers.  And  I  must  spend  my  time 


ii2  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

scolding  and  punishing  and  reproving  you  because 
you  don't  pay  attention.  Why  do  you  make  me  do 
it?" 

He  spread  his  hands,  wishing  to  imply  that  he  didn't 
want  to  take  her  time. 

"  Ever  since  you've  been  in  school,"  she  went  on, 
"  it's  been  the  same  old  story.  You're  not  a  dull  boy; 
it's  just  because  you  won't  pay  attention.  Your 
thoughts  are  always  wandering  off.  And  now  this! 
In  a  Geography  Test,  you're  '  sitting  and  thinking  J 
and  lighting  matches!  What  can  I  do?  I  can't  send 
home  a  good  report  to  your  father,  can  I?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  Amos  said  quickly.  He  meant  that  he 
did  not  want  her  to  lie  on  his  account. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  realize  the  importance  of  your 
work.  What  do  you  think  is  going  to  become  of  you 
when  you  grow  up?  " 

Here  was  the  weak  point — the  dismal  cloud  of 
failure. 

Amos  wished  he  was  out  of  it.  Why  couldn't  he 
realize  that  the  results  of  misbehaving  were  always 
the  same? 

"  It  just  went  off,"  he  said,  inconsequentially. 

"  What  were  you  doing  with  matches?  "  Miss  Mac- 
Ready  demanded,  struck  by  a  new  thought.  "  It's  dan- 
gerous, don't  you  know  it  is?  Have  you  got  any 
more?  " 

"  I  had  another  one,  and  I  threw  it  out  of  the  win- 
dow." 

"  You  did  what?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  113 

"  This  window,"  said  Amos. 

"  Go  out  and  see  if  you  can  find  it."  Miss  Mac- 
Ready's  tone  implied  that  this  was  the  last  straw. 

Amos  went  out  and  found  the  match  at  once,  lying 
on  the  cement  which  formed  the  pavement  of  the  yard. 
He  handed  it  up  to  the  Principal. 

She  lighted  it  on  the  sill  of  the  window,  blew  it  out 
with  an  elaborate  show  of  finality,  moistened  her  fin- 
gers and  ground  away  the  cold  ash,  and  then,  after 
another  searching  inspection  of  the  stick,  which  by 
this  time  looked  quite  innocent,  threw  it  out  of  the 
window  again.  Amos  was  thinking  how  stupid  he  had 
been  not  to  have  thought  of  this  in  the  first  place,  and 
so  saved  all  the  trouble. 

"  Now  it  can't  do  any  harm,"  she  said.  "  You 
wouldn't  like  to  be  responsible  for  setting  fire  to  this 
building,  would  you?  " 

Amos  saw  about  what  the  chances  must  be,  and  was 
ready  to  burst  with  indignation  and  scorn.  Why,  if 
Miss  MacReady  considered  this  a  desperate  chance, 
she  must  live  in  terror,  day  and  night! 

He  told  her  that  it  was  not  his  intention  to  burn 
down  the  school,  but  he  was  so  sarcastic  that  she  was 
angry  again. 

At  that  moment  the  bell  rang,  and  a  sudden  roar 
from  all  the  rooms  indicated  a  stampede  of  feet  and 
the  putting  away  of  books.  School  was  out. 

"  Go  to  my  room  and  wait  till  I  come,"  Miss  Mac- 
Ready  said. 

The  level  afternoon   sunlight  came  streaming   in 


ii4  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

through  the  windows  of  the  Principal's  office,  and  made 
the  dingy  little  room  seem  almost  gay.  Amos  leaned 
on  the  high  sill  of  the  window,  sighing,  looking  out 
over  the  green  expanse  of  the  lots,  watching  his  com- 
rades dwindle  to  specks  as  they  followed  the  trail, 
thinking  unutterable  things.  Some  far-away  windows 
caught  the  glare  of  the  sun  and  blazed  it  back  again 
...  he  turned  away,  so  as  not  to  see  it,  and,  in  a  mood 
of  high  revenge,  set  about  memorizing  the  chronology 
of  the  Revolutionary  War,  which  was  written  upon 
the  blackboard  for  the  pupils'  confusion.  Then  he 
heard  the  Principal  coming,  and  sank  into  despair. 

It  was  a  tedious  interview.  Miss  MacReady 
couldn't  beat  him  for  such  an  offense  as  this,  but  she 
could  bore  him,  and  she  did  it.  He  tried  to  tell  of  his 
fancies  about  Borneo,  though  he  knew  it  was  a  waste 
of  time,  and  she  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  had  all  day 
to  think  of  such  things.  She  urged  him  to  say  he  was 
sorry,  and  to  promise  that  he  would  never  act  so  again, 
which  he  readily  enough  did,  and  let  him  go. 

There  remained  the  problem  of  explaining  at  home 
his  reason  for  arriving  late.  There  seemed  no  better 
way  out  of  further  trouble  than  the  truth.  So  he  told 
Isabel  that  he  had  been  kept  after  school  for  having 
lighted  a  match,  and  added,  in  explanation,  the  whole 
story  of  Borneo. 

Isabel  pretended  never  to  have  heard  of  so  mad  a 
thing.  Amos  asked  her  if  his  fancies  about  Borneo 
were  not  really  as  true  as  Geography. 

"Certainly  not,"  Isabel  said.     "In  a  Geography 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  115 

Test,  your  whole  duty  is  to  pay  attention  to  your 
work." 

Amos  gave  it  up.  Your  imagination  was  evidently 
to  be  used  only  in  odd  moments,  when  you  had  noth- 
ing better  to  do.  Imagination  was  all  very  well  in  pri- 
vate, but  it  would  not  mix  with  the  world. 

On  his  way  home  from  the  Mill  that  night,  Phanor 
had  happened  to  meet  Miss  MacReady,  and  she  told 
him  all  about  the  match-lighting  episode,  partly  to  ex- 
cuse herself  for  letting  such  things  happen,  and  partly 
to  let  Phanor  understand  that  she  could  not,  with  a 
clear  conscience,  send  home  a  better  report  for  Amos 
than  the  one  that  had  been  shaping  itself  in  her  mind 
as  she  walked  home.  But  her  real  reason  was  to  aid 
Parents  in  their  crusade  against  Youth. 

Phanor  would  have  preferred  to  do  his  own  spy- 
ing, but  the  matter  was  by  no  means  "  over  and 
done  with,"  and  he  wanted  to  "  get  to  the  bottom  " 
of  it. 

In  the  evening,  Amos  was  sitting  at  the  desk  in  the 
corner,  his  arithmetic  book  open  before  him.  He  had 
created  a  harp-like  instrument  with  a  rubber  band 
stretched  over  a  ruler,  and  was  picking  at  it,  holding  it 
close  to  his  ear. 

"  Stop  that  noise,"  said  Phanor  suddenly.  "  Haven't 
you  got  any  work  to  do?  " 

"  Just  some  examples,"  Amos  said,  putting  away  the 
ruler. 

"  Well,  get  about  it,  then.  Good  Lord,  boy,  don't 
you  take  any  interest  in  your  work?  " 


u6     THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  All  right,"  Amos  answered,  and  turned  to  his  arith- 
metic. 

"  Well,"  said  Phanor,  and  pegged  one  for  last  word. 

Amos  computed  how  many  sheep  A  would  have  left 
if  he  gave  three-eighths  of  his  flock  to  his  eldest  son  and 
two-fifths  to  his  second  son,  and  fell  to  stabbing  an 
eraser  with  a  pen. 

"  What  a  shiftless,  good-for-nothing  boy  you  are, 
anyway!  "  Phanor  exclaimed,  glaring  over  the  top  of 
his  paper.  "  How  do  you  ever  expect  to  ever  amount  to 
anything  in  the  world?  " 

Amos  bent  over  his  arithmetic  again  in  silence. 

"  What  do  you  think  he  did  to-day  in  school,  Isa- 
bel? He  was  sitting  playing  with  matches,  in  a  Geog- 
raphy Test!  " 

"  Yes,"  Isabel  said.  She  had  some  idea  of  defending 
Amos.  "  He  came  home  and  told  me  all  about  it." 

"  Did  he,  though?  "  said  Phanor.  "  It's  a  wonder  he 
wasn't  ashamed  of  it." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  expect  me  ta  do?  "  Amos  said. 
"  Lie  about  it?  " 

"Don't  talk  like  a  fool!  " 

"  Well,  you  always  try  to  make  out  I'm  no  good." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you're  a  brilliant  scholar. 
What  you  think  to  come  to,  I  don't  know." 

"  Oh,  Gee!  You'd  think  lighting  matches  was  a 
crime!  " 

"  Be  careful  of  your  language,  my  son,"  Isabel  put 
in. 

"  Don't  you  try  to  twist  my  words  around,  you 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  117 

idiot,"  Phanor  cried.  "  You  know  perfectly  well  what 
I  mean.  Why  wasn't  your  mind  on  the  Geography, 
that's  what  I  want  to  know,  instead  of  something 
else?  " 

"  It  was  on  the  Geography.  I  was  thinking  about 
the  Geography  so  hard  I  never  noticed  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  stick  your  face  in  a  book  and  stop  talking  non- 
sense! " 

"  How  can  I  study  if  you  keep  talking  to  me?  " 

Amos  turned  about  and  faced  Phanor  over  the  back 
of  his  chair.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  had  about  all  he 
could  stand,  for  this  one  day. 

"  Crickey,  boy,  I  don't  see  what's  going  to  become 
of  you.  What  do  you  think  they'd  do  with  a  boy  like 
you  down  at  the  Mill?  " 

"  Fire  him  out,"  Amos  conjectured  promptly. 

"  Yes;  well,"  said  Phanor.    "  I  guess  so." 

He  sat  for  a  moment  regarding  his  paper.  He  had 
done  all  he  could,  God  knew  it;  and  now  his  son  was 
headed  for  failure,  and  didn't  seem  to  care. 

"  Don't  you  realize  the  importance  of  your  work?  " 

Amos  cried,  "  No,  I  don't!  I  don't  think  school 
has  got  anything  to  do  with  life  at  all!  " 

Phanor  laughed. 

"  A  lot  you  know  about  life!  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  I  do!  You're  always  trying  to  make  out  it's 
nothing  but  school.  Lots  of  great  men  didn't  go  to 
school  at  all.  Lincoln  didn't." 

Isabel  came  into  the  conversation. 

"  Lincoln  studied  at  home,"  she  said  quietly. 


n8  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Well,  that's  what  I'm  trying  to  do,  and  you  won't 
let  me,"  Amos  retorted. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you're  going  to  be  a  great  man, 
hey?  Is  that  it?  "  There  was  an  ugly  pneer  in  Pha- 
nor's  voice.  "  Hey,  Isabel,  look  at  the  young  Abe 
Lincoln!  " 

Amos  burst  out  in  a  scream  of  rage. 

"  Oh,  it  makes  me  sick!  "  he  cried.  "  I'm  sick  of 
the  whole  damn  business!  " 

Phanor  jumped  to  his  feet,  flinging  his  paper  across 
the  room,  and  advanced  on  Amos,  white  with  anger. 

"  One  more  word  out  of  you,  you  young 
blackguard,"  he  shouted,  "  and  I'll  send  you  up  to 
bed!  " 

"  You  can't  do  it!  "  Amos  flung  back.  "  You've  got 
to  let  me  do  my  arithmetic." 

Isabel  rose  and  stood  between  them,  trying  to  pro- 
tect Amos  from  his  father's  wrath. 

"  Well,  you  get  about  it  then,"  Phanor  said.  "  I'd 
like  to  beat  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life!  " 

"Phanor!  Phanor!  Not  so  loud!"  said  Isabel. 
Then  she  added,  to  Amos,  "  Tell  mother  where  you 
heard  that  naughty  word." 

Amos'  anger  had  been  frightened  out  of  him  by  this 
time,  and  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  revealed  his  fa- 
miliarity with  profanity. 

"  Some  men,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  you  ever  to  say  such  a  thing 
again.  You  hear?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  119 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

They  went  back  to  their  seats,  and  Amos  turned 
again  to  his  arithmetic.  He  finished  his  examples,  and 
went  off  upstairs  to  bed. 

Alone  in  the  dark,  he  saw  the  day's  results  somewhat 
differently.  His  parents  got  mad,  and  said  stupid 
things,  but  it  was  his  own  worthlessness  that  made  them 
do  so.  Perhaps,  after  all,  they  did  know  something. 
Phanor  was  a  successful  man,  worked  in  the  Mill,  was 
married,  and  everything.  Phanor  was  safe.  The  world 
couldn't  touch  him.  This  was  probably  life's  greatest 
achievement;  Phanor  said  it  was,  and  seemed  proud 
of  it.  Phanor  ought  to  know  what  was  necessary, 
then.  And  he  said  that  Amos  had  no  chance  at 
all. 

No,  black  doom  had  been  written  on  the  wall  for 
him,  since  the  very  start  of  Time.  He  could  never 
hope  to  be  safe.  Some  day,  the  world  would  demand 
of  him  the  very  things  that  he  had  not  had  the  patience 
to  learn;  then  the  results  of  his  folly  and  wickedness 
would  fall  upon  him,  and  he  would  be  a  failure.  That 
was  what  was  meant  by  not  amounting  to  anything. 
It  meant  Failure.  Safety  was  safety  from  Failure. 
No;  he  was  a  gone  bird;  there  were  no  two  ways 
about  it. 

Downstairs  he  could  still  hear  their  voices,  and  he 
felt  a  momentary  return  of  rage  at  the  thought  that 
they  were  still  discussing  the  wickedness  of  lighting 
matches. 


120  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  did  not  know  that  they  were  talking  about  Mat- 
thew Burton. 

A  few  days  after  this,  while  Amos  was  engaged  in 
cutting  the  grass  of  the  front  yard,  Burton  arrived, 
with  every  appearance  of  casuality,  and  asked  Amos 
to  come  over  and  spend  the  evening  with  him.  Amos 
was  pleased;  he  had  been  afraid  that  Burton  thought 
him  unfriendly. 

Isabel  made  him  put  on  his  best  clothes,  which  he 
thought  foolish — couldn't  a  boy  go  to  call  on  his 
friends  without  getting  all  dressed  up  as  if  he  were 
going  to  church?  Isabel  reminded  him  that  Mr.  Bur- 
ton was  a  minister,  so  that  going  to  see  him  was  not 
unlike  going  to  church. 

Burton  presented  Amos  to  his  wife  and  daughter; 
the  girl  was  a  fair,  pale  thing  without  distinction,  and 
Mrs.  Burton  babbled  and  gushed,  so  that  Amos  was 
glad  when  the  ladies  withdrew  and  left  them  alone  in 
Burton's  study. 

The  study  was  a  depressing  room,  atrociously  fur- 
nished and  filled  with  musty  smells,  but  there  was  one 
nice  thing  about  it:  the  walls  were  covered  to  the  ceil- 
ing with  books,  and  the  books  were  books  that  were 
used.  Amos  had  never  seen  anything  like  this  before; 
it  was  like  the  things  one  read  of. 

After  a  period  of  gay  and  boyish  conversation,  of 
obvious  artificiality,  designed  to  make  Amos  feel  at 
home,  and  to  dispel  the  fusty  old  minister  impression, 
Burton  came  to  the  real  subject  of  the  meeting. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  121 

"  Do  you  remember  saying  that  you'd  be  willing  to 
help  me,  old  man,  if  I  needed  it?  "  Burton  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  the  time's  come.  I  want  your  advice  in  a 
matter  that's  been  close  to  my  heart  for  some  time." 

Amos  supposed  that  Burton  had  gotten  himself  into 
some  scrape  by  being  blinded  when  he  wanted  to  do  so 
much.  People  had  to  be  good,  of  course,  and  pious 
and  all  that,  but  the  professionals  always  seemed  to 
have  the  hardest  time  of  it. 

"  I've  always  wanted  to  do  boy's  work,"  Burton  went 
on.  "  That  has  been  one  of  the  things  I've  had  ahead 
of  me,  through  all  my  life.  Recently,  I've  come  to  see 
that  I  shall  never  have  more  time  for  it  than  I  have 
right  now,  and  I'm  going  to  go  ahead.  I've  got  a  plan, 
for  a  beginning,  and  I'd  like  your  opinion  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  Amos  said,  warily,  not  know- 
ing what  was  coming.  "  I  don't  see  how  my  opinion 
can  be  worth  much." 

"  Yes,  it  can,  my  friend;  you're  a  boy  yourself." 

"Gee,  boys  don't  know  what's  good  for  them!  " 
Amos  said. 

"  Maybe  they  don't,"  Burton  admitted,  much 
amused.  Then  he  proceeded. 

A  party  of  four  or  five  boys — in  which  Amos,  of 
course,  was  to  be  included — was  to  be  taken  to  Europe 
under  Burton's  guidance.  They  were  to  sail  as  soon 
as  school  was  out  in  the  Spring,  go  through  France  and 
Italy,  Switzerland,  Germany,  Holland,  England,  and 
home,  at  the  end  of  two  months,  from  Liverpool.  Now, 


122  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

did  Amos  think  such  a  plan  would  work,  and  did  he 
think  the  boys  would  like  it? 

Amos  was  too  delighted  to  think  of  any  boy  other 
than  himself.  He  would  enjoy  it!  A  captive  sea-bird 
would  enjoy  being  released  from  a  cage.  It  would 
work  with  him!  The  plan  of  being  happy  would  al- 
ways work.  He  danced  about  the  room;  he  sang  and 
laughed  and  cried;  he  hugged  Burton;  he  fluttered  the 
leaves  of  the  guide-books  which  Burton  dragged  out 
to  show  him ;  and  in  the  end  he  went  dancing  off  home 
to  tell  the  news. 

He  burst  in.  There  sat  Phanor  with  his  paper  across 
his  knees,  and  Isabel  busy  at  some  embroidery. 

"Listen!  "  he  cried.  "Oh,  listen!  Mr.  Burton's 
going  to  take  a  crowd  of  us  boys,  with  walking  clothes 
and  everything,  and  look  after  us  and  talk  the  lan- 
guages and  go  to  Europe!  " 

Phanor  and  Isabel  stared  for  a  moment;  they  could 
hardly  make  out  what  he  was  trying  to  say. 

"  This  summer,  when  school's  over,"  he  cried  again. 
"We're  going  to  Europe!  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

Then  Phanor  chuckled,  and  Isabel  threw  back  her 
head  and  laughed.  This,  really,  was  too  ridiculous! 
Amos,  going  to  Europe?  Amos  Enday,  their  own  son, 
talking  of  going  to  Europe,  just  as  if  ...  Amos? 
Why,  they  themselves  hadn't  even  been  to  Niagara 
Falls,  to  say  nothing  of  Europe.  And  Amos  was  talk- 
ing ...  he  ...  they  .  .  .  well,  that  was  good! 

That  finished  that. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  123 

Burton  said  he  didn't  see  how  he  could  make  it  that 
year,  anyway,  and  substituted  the  idea  of  a  Travel 
Club,  to  meet  at  his  house  on  alternate  Friday  even- 
ings, and  read  papers  on  the  different  countries  they 
would  imagine  themselves  visiting. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AMOS  had  kept  steadily  before  him  the  hope  that 
some  day  he  would  reach  the  age  of  twenty-one, 
and  could  tell  his  father  and  mother  to  go  to  hell.  He 
did  not  doubt  that  they  would  do  his  bidding  at  once. 
Then  having  cleared  the  air  about  him  and  the  road 
before  him,  he  could  begin  at  once  to  be  himself;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  nothing  but  freedom  from  his  par- 
ents was  necessary  for  this.  He  considered  his  char- 
acter formed  and  his  whole  plan  of  life  arranged,  ready 
for  instant  release  when  the  time  should  come. 

Yet  he  saw,  too,  that  though  there  were  several  long 
years  to  be  endured  before  this  could  happen,  he  ought, 
in  some  way  or  other,  begin  to  prepare  himself  for  it. 
But  he  did  not  know  what  steps  to  take. 

It  was  clearly  impossible  to  start  the  process  of  being 
himself  by  slow  and  cautious  steps,  for  everything  fine 
and  inspiring  which  he  had  so  far  met  in  life  had  either 
been  laughed  out  of  him  by  his  parents,  or  postponed 
"  until  he  was  older."  Besides,  no  one  ever  heard  of  a 
really  fine  person  being  cautious.  There  seemed  noth- 
ing for  it,  then,  but  to  wait. 

He  saw,  sweeping  down  upon  him,  the  termination 
of  Grammar  School.  He  had  long  ago  decided  that  it 
would  perhaps  be  advisable  to  omit  going  to  High 
School  altogether,  thus  avoiding  the  cruel  embarrass- 
ment of  not  knowing  how  to  act.  Now  it  was  immi- 

124 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  125 

nent,  and  he  must  go  through  with  it,  whether  he  knew 
how  to  act  or  not. 

Well,  he  had  felt  the  same  about  marriage:  he 
couldn't  imagine  himself  ever  asking  a  woman  to  marry 
him,  because  he  didn't  know  how  to  act.  People  in 
books  went  through  with  the  ridiculous  ceremony  with 
poise  and  distinction,  but  then,  they  were  in  books,  and 
the  lives  of  actual  people  were  obviously  quite  different. 
He  supposed  that  when  the  matter  became  imminent, 
and  he  found  himself  on  his  knees  before  the  last 
woman  on  earth,  some  sense  of  the  inevitability  of  the 
situation  would  clutch  him  and  drag  him  through.  Or, 
he  might  quote  from  the  books — if  they  happened  to 
be  books  that  his  particular  woman  had  not  read,  that 
might  not  be  so  bad. 

But,  with  High  School,  there  weren't  even  the  models 
in  the  books.  The  only  real  way  out  would  be  to  give 
up  High  School  altogether,  and  retrace  his  steps  over 
the  road  of  life.  Yet  the  sun  rose,  day  after  day;  High 
School,  like  the  peak  of  a  terrible  mountain,  rose  over 
the  horizon. 

As  his  own  contribution  to  the  graduation  festivities 
he  was  to  recite  Lincoln's  Gettysburg  speech,  and  the 
nervousness  with  which  he  anticipated  his  appearance 
on  the  platform  added  to  the  natural  apprehensiveness 
of  the  occasion.  It  was  a  day  on  which  special  pre- 
cautions must  be  taken  against  unpleasant  oc- 
currences. His  part  in  the  cantata  of  the  infamous 
legend  of  Floyd  Ireson  was  inconspicuous  enough,  and 


126  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

caused  him  no  uneasiness,  but  Lincoln's  speech  was  put 
late  in  the  program,  and  he  worked  himself  into  a  hope- 
lessly perspiring  state  of  agony  long  before  there  was 
any  need  of  it. 

His  time  came  at  last,  and  he  launched  himself  into 
the  sea  of  Lincoln's  great  words  in  a  spasm  of  haste 
and  dread.  His  mother  was  in  the  audience,  and  she 
smiled  up  at  him  to  encourage  him,  so  that  when  he 
was  half-way  through,  and  saw  that  he  was  not  going 
to  forget  his  lines,  or  explode,  or  find  himself  suddenly 
without  his  clothes,  he  slowed  down,  breathed  easier, 
and  began  to  use  some  of  the  gestures  he  had  been 
taught. 

He  had  never  before  been  so  grateful  for  his  mother. 
When  he  had  finished  and  made  his  bow,  he  looked 
down  at  her  as  he  was  leaving  the  platform,  and  saw 
her  nodding  and  smiling  up  at  him  under  her  pretty 
lace  hat  and  clapping  her  little  gloved  hands  in  what 
seemed  to  him  to  be  complete  approval.  He  quite 
missed  the  idea  that  she  was,  in  reality,  applauding  her- 
self for  having  so  brilliant  a  son. 

He  sank  gratefully  into  his  seat  beside  Bert  Wilson, 
and  seemed  to  look  back  over  a  long  life  of  complicated 
achievements.' 

Bert  leaned  over  and  whispered  behind  his  hand, 
"  I'm  going  down  to  Waddy  Brooke's  after  school. 
Come  on  down." 

Amos  felt  that  this  was  too  special  an  occasion  for 
mere  play  after  school,  and  he  hesitated.  Must  he  not, 
somehow,  be  different,  now  that  he  had  graduated? 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  127 

"  Come  on,"  Bert  insisted.  "  Belle's  going  to  be 
there;  she  wants  you  to  come." 

Amos  felt  a  thrill.  Belle  Brooke  had  sent  for  him! 
That  could  only  mean  that  she  loved  him. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  not  wishing  to  betray  the  eagerness 
which  he  felt,  "  I  got  to  go  home  first." 

"  All  right.  I'll  come  with  you,  and  then  we'll  go 
right  on  over." 

Accordingly,  when  the  celebration  was  finished,  and 
the  children  had  filed  out  of  the  dingy  old  school-house 
for  the  last  time,  carrying  their  diplomas  and  feeling 
stiff  and  formal  in  their  best  clothes  and  important  in 
their  new  setting  out  into  life,  Bert  and  Amos  freed 
themselves  from  the  crowd,  and  set  out  for  Elm  Street. 

Isabel  had  stayed  at  school  for  a  congratulation  con- 
test with  some  of  the  other  mothers,  and  was  not  at 
home  when  Amos  arrived.  The  house  was  shut  up  and 
deserted.  Amos  would  have  wept  if  Bert  had  not  been 
watching.  It  was  so  sad  a  thing  to  be  shut  out  of  one's 
house.  And  this  was  so  important  an  occasion! 

The  two  boys  walked  all  around  the  house,  inspect- 
ing all  the  carefully  locked  windows.  Finally,  Amos 
climbed  the  pole  in  the  back  yard  and  hid  his  diploma 
in  the  bird-house.  The  symbol  of  all  his  new  achieve- 
ments, hidden  in  the  bird-house!  He  half  hoped  it 
would  be  stolen,  or  carried  off  by  the  birds;  how 
would  his  mother  feel  then? 

This  was  just  as  Amos  had  always  feared;  some  great 
change  would  come,  and  Home  would  not  even  be 
aware  of  it. 


128  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

The  Brookes  lived  in  a  house  of  magnificent  size,  or 
so  it  seemed  to  Amos.  Belle  was  a  Queen,  on  a  throne; 
she  was  shut  off  from  the  world  by  tall  iron  gates,  and 
separated  from  the  common  crowd  of  mankind  by  a 
splendid  garden.  Her  environment,  no  less  than  her 
reputation  and  her  beauty,  set  her  apart,  and  made  her 
inaccessible. 

The  boys  came  in  at  the  carriage  gates,  and  as  they 
passed  along  the  drive,  Bert  gave  a  peculiar  whistle, 
which  was  answered  from  the  barn,  where  Waddy 
Brooke,  his  sister,  and  another  girl,  named  Jane  Lane, 
whose  red  hair  Amos  had  noted,  but  with  whom  he  had 
never  spoken,  were  playing  together.  The  three  ap- 
peared at  a  hay-door  on  the  second  floor,  and  called  to 
them  to  come  on  up. 

Amos  loved  a  barn.  This  was  a  very  different  place 
from  the  disused  old  ruin  in  which  the  armies  of  Re- 
spectability used  to  withstand  the  attacks  of  Cliff 
Smoot  in  the  days  when  there  were  Micks,  for  there  was 
a  hay-loft  here,  and  horses,  and  carriages  in  the  car- 
riage-room, and  a  room  for  the  hired  man  with  a  hired 
man  actually  living  in  it. 

Amos  was  introduced.  He  was  rather  bewildered. 
He  did  not  know  how  to  act.  He  found  himself,  so  to 
speak,  on  a  stage  during  a  performance  in  which  he  was 
the  only  one  who  did  not  understand  what  was  going 
on.  However,  he  was  soon  completely  in  love  with 
Belle,  and  that  made  it  easier  for  him. 

Waddy  soon  left  them,  and  the  four  were  obliged  to 
amuse  themselves.  As  a  means  of  breaking  the  ice— 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  129 

which  was  rather  necessary,  since  Amos  was  embar- 
rassed now,  by  the  presence  of  Jane  and  Bert — it  was 
suggested  that  they  play  forfeits.  In  the  first  round, 
Bert  said  "  the  owner  of  this  " — meaning  Amos'  knife 

"  must  kiss  Belle  Brooke  ten  times."  He  fulfilled  his 
obligations,  but  did  not  stop  at  the  end;  he  caught 
Belle  tight  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 
From  this  he  raised  his  head,  in  a  glow  of  enthusiasm 
at  her  sweetness  and  his  own  unconquerable  daring,  to 
find  that  the  others  had  clattered  laughingly  down  the 
stairs  and  left  them  alone.  It  rather  pleased  him  that 
they  should  have  been  able  to  get  away  without  his 
noticing  it;  it  meant  that  he  was  caught  in  a  net  of  love 
and  beauty,  and  so  he  told  Belle.  Her  heart  was  won 
immediately  at  this — if  it  needed  any  winning — and 
they  promised  eternal  fidelity. 

Amos  had  always  regarded  kissing  as  a  foolish  con- 
cession to  convention;  people  in  books — no  matter; 
he  himself  did  not  know  how  it  should  be  done,  and 
thought  omission  the  best  way  out  of  it.  Belle  con- 
vinced him  at  once  of  the  folly  of  this. 

He  found  that  making  love  to  her  came  as  naturally 
to  him  as  Spring  sunshine  comes  to  a  flower.  Here  was 
a  secret  penetrated.  Why,  it  was  a  part  of  the  Con- 
spiracy, and  he  had  solved  it  for  himself!  Love,  after 
all,  was  not  something  in  a  book;  it  was  within  himself! 
He  had  but  to  listen,  and  the  voice  of  it  filled  his 
heart. 

They  sat  there  in  the  hay,  with  the  swallows  twitter- 
ing and  darting  about  among  the  rafters  above  their 


130  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

heads.  Belle  talked  with  him  as  another  boy  would 
talk — with  a  thousand  added  delights,  of  course — she 
was  profane  where  there  was  occasion  for  profanity, 
and  nearly  everything  she  said  had  a  double  meaning. 
It  never  crossed  Amos'  mind  that  she  was  like  this  by 
actual  character;  he  thought  that  he  had  broken 
through  the  protecting  wall  and  found  the  key  which 
brought  him  into  the  presence  of  her  inmost  self.  He 
felt  that  he  had  created  her  for  his  own  delight. 
Thereby,  had  he  but  known  it,  he  arrived  at  the  heart 
of  the  matter. 

He  won  her,  and  lost  her,  and  won  her  again,  in  de- 
lightful repetition.  They  pretended  to  quarrel,  and 
made  it  up  again;  they  discovered  new  kinds  of  kisses; 
they  talked  about  how  they  loved  each  other.  They 
wanted  no  more  than  this. 

Their  most  important  revelation  was  that  neither  of 
them,  ever  again  hereafter,  would  be  more  than  half 
alive  without  the  other.  Amos  thought  that  he  had  dis- 
covered all  this;  it  was,  in  his  mind,  one  of  those  inde- 
pendent discoveries  of  which  one  sometimes  reads; 
other  people  had  perhaps  found  it  out,  at  other  times 
and  in  far-away  places,  but  he  too  had  hit  upon  it, 
without  knowledge  of  their  researches.  This  ex- 
plained how  it  was  that  people  had  always  acted  as  if 
there  were  such  a  thing  as  love,  actually  existing;  they 
had  found  it,  and  now  he  had  found  it;  every  living 
soul  on  earth  had  either  caught  this  ideal,  or  was  pur- 
suing it.  Human  nature  included  Amos  Enday.  There 
was  something  miraculous  about  it.  Belle,  with  her 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  131 

laughing  eyes  and  willing  mouth,  was  a  confirmation 
and  a  materialization;  she  was  a  vision  come  true  for 
him,  his  book,  his  experience,  his  life.  And  so  he  told 
her. 

She  did  not  then  understand,  nor  can  it  be  said  that 
she  ever  did  understand,  that  she  was  no  more  than 
one  who  holds  open  a  door  for  another. 

Some  one  called  Belle  from  the  house,  telling  her 
that  it  was  time  for  supper.  They  parted  as  tenderly, 
and  at  as  great  length,  as  if  forever.  A  dozen  times 
Belle  called  him  back  to  kiss  her  again. 

He  went  home  feeling  like  a  King.  The  world  was 
filled  with  Romance  and  Beauty;  delight  was  all  about 
him,  free,  open  to  the  sky,  and,  by  its  very  intensity, 
incapable  of  being  denied.  This,  no  power  on  earth 
should  ever  thwart.  Nothing  should  ever  stop  him 
again.  He  had  met  his  lady  and  won  her,  and  life, 
from  this  point  on,  was  all  that  he  had  ever  hoped  or 
dreamed  it. 

When  he  reached  home,  Phanor  had  already  arrived 
from  the  Mill,  and  they  were  about  to  sit  down  to  sup- 
per without  him.  Almost  he  wished  they  had  done  so; 
he  would  have  liked  to  tell  them  that  being  late  to  sup- 
per was  a  very  unimportant  thing. 

"  Well,  where  have  you  been  till  this  time  of  night?  " 
Phanor  asked.  "  Didn't  you  know  it  was  time  to  come 
home?  " 

"  Oh,  I've  been  out  somewhere,"  said  Amos,  jauntily, 
"  minding  my  own  business." 


132  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"Don't  be  impudent,"  said  Isabel,  who  had  come 
to  the  kitchen  door  to  hear  Amos  explain. 

"  You  have,  hey?  "  Phanor  said.  "  Well,  you'd  bet- 
ter stayed  back  there  with  the  children." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  not,"  said  Amos. 

"  Don't  you  talk  that  way  to  me,  boy!  If  this  is 
what  getting  out  of  school  has  done  to  you,  you'd  bet- 
ter stayed  there  with  the  children." 

"  Getting  out  of  school's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it," 
Amos  replied. 

"  There,  don't  make  trouble,"  Isabel  said.  "  Don't 
you  know  by  this  time,  that  you  ought  to  come  home 
after  school?  " 

"  I  did  come  home,  and  there  wasn't  anybody  here." 

"Now,  don't  begin  to  lie  about  it,"  said  Phanor. 
"  Your  mother  knows,  don't  she?  " 

"  No;  she  wasn't  here  herself.  How  soon  are  we 
going  to  have  supper?  " 

"  Right  away,"  said  Isabel,  turning  up  the  gas  in  the 
dining-room.  "  We  were  just  waiting  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'll  get  my  diploma,  then.  It's  in  the 
bird  house.  It  might  get  damp." 

Outside,  the  world  was  filled  with  quiet  twilight,  and 
the  robins  were  singing.  How  sad  and  beautiful! 

During  supper,  Amos  told  the  story  of  the  deserted 
house  and  the  hidden  diploma,  making  it  as  startling  as 
he  could,  enjoying  the  chagrin  which  his  parents  evi- 
dently felt  at  having  left  him  to  his  own  resources  on 
so  important  a  day. 

Later,  he  took  a  book  of  Browning's  poems  over  to 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  133 

the  corner  with  him,  and  sat  for  some  time  listlessly 
turning  the  pages  in  search  of  something  which  should 
come  near  to  expressing  what  he  felt.  Oh,  the  glory 
and  joy  of  knowing  that  he  was  right!  Oh,  Belle, 
Belle!  My  darling,  my  darling!  Your  kisses  on  my 
lips,  your  hands  on  my  cheeks,  your  eyes  like  stars  in 
the  sky! 

"  What  are  you  feeling  so  gay  about,  young  man?  " 
asked  Phanor,  who  had  been  watching  over  the  top  of 
his  paper. 

"  I  guess  I'll  take  up  the  study  of  Browning  this 
summer,"  Amos  replied,  seriously. 

Phanor  and  Isabel  exchanged  amused  glances. 

"  Humph!  "  said  Phanor.  "  Pity  you  didn't  get  am- 
bitious before  it  was  all  over!  " 

"  It's  not  all  over,"  Amos  said.  "  It's  just  beginning. 
I've  always  wanted  to  know  about  poetry,  and  they 
never  give  us  any  in  school." 

"Why,  what  a  way  to  talk,"  Isabel  exclaimed. 
"  Think  of  all  the  poems  you've  learned  to  recite!  " 

"  Yes;  Village  Blacksmith  and  Floyd  Ireson  and 
Santa  Topsy!  Lot  of  school  stuff!  " 

"Well,  what  next!  "  said  Phanor. 

"  Isn't  Browning  all  right?  " 

"  He  was  a  great  man,"  said  Phanor  solemnly. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  up  to  bed,"  Amos  said.  "  I'm 
tired." 

He  rose  and  went  upstairs,  taking  the  Browning  with 
him.  As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  hearing,  both  Phanor 
and  Isabel  began  to  speak  at  once. 


134  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Well,  of  all  things!  "  said  Isabel. 

"  What's  come  over  him?  "  asked  Phanor. 

"  I  guess  he's  relieved  about  school  being  over 
with,"  Isabel  suggested.  "  I'm  afraid  he  hasn't  en- 
joyed it  as  he  should." 

"Too  bad  about  him!  "  said  Phanor.  "  Crickey,  I 
wonder  what's  going  to  become  of  the  boy?  " 

"  He's  not  a  dull  boy;  I  guess  he'll  get  there,  some 
day." 

"  I  hope  so.  It  don't  seem  likely,  though.  Isn't  that 
just  like  him!  The  very  day  he  gets  through  school, 
he  wants  to  do  some  studying.  And  Poetry,  too." 

"  Well,  it  is  funny,"  Isabel  agreed.  "  But  I  think 
it's  a  good  sign." 

"  I  suppose  he  might  learn  something,  at  that,"  Pha- 
nor conceded. 

"  He  may  develop  into  quite  a  student  hi  High 
School  and  College;  you  can't  tell.  Look  at  Gerald 
What's-his-name;  always  at  the  very  tail  end,  all 
through  school,  and  he  took  prizes  in  college." 

"  College?  "  said  Phanor,  as  if  the  idea  were  new  to 
him. 

"  Why,  yes.  Don't  you  remember?  He  got  a  medal 
for  something,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Yes;  but  what's  that  got  to  do  with  Amos?  " 

"  Why,  I  was  just  thinking  that  sometimes  boys 
that  are  backward  in  school  sort  of  .  .  ." 

"  Who  said  anything  about  Amos  going  to  college?  " 

"  Well,  nobody.    But  I  thought  it  was  all  decided." 

"  That's  news  to  me.    I  simply  said  it  might  be  a 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  135 

good  thing;  it  was  just  a  suggestion,  that's  all.  And 
here  you  turn  around  and  say  it's  all  decided!  " 

"  Well,  I  was  just  thinking,  that's  all.  It's  got  to  be 
decided  pretty  soon,  you  know." 

"  Why  has  it?  "  Phanor  asked. 

"  Why  you  told  me  yourself,  Phanor.  You  have  to 
put  in  an  application,  or  whatever  it  is,  for  the  High 
School,  to  say  whether  you  want  him  to  take  the  Col- 
lege Preparatory  Course,  or  the  other." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  said!  But  what  if  I  did?  " 
There's  no  such  hurry,  that  I  can  see.  What's  the 
sense  of  rushing  off  all  of  a  sudden,  without  taking  a 
little  time  to  think  it  over?  " 

'*  There's  nothing  to  be  gained  by  putting  it  off  till 
the  last  minute,  either,"  Isabel  said.  "  I  don't  want 
him  to  come  tagging  along  at  the  very  tail  end,  all  the 
time.'' 

'  The  boy's  whole  future's  at  stake,  Isabel." 

"  I  know." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  the  college  course  is  the  one  to  take. 
I  don't  know.  Have  you  got  that  catalog  there?  " 

Isabel  found  the  High  School  catalog  under  the  pile 
of  magazines  on  the  desk,  and  passed  it  across  to  Pha- 
nor, who  began  to  turn  the  leaves. 

"  Crickey,  look  at  all  the  stuff  they  give  them!  "  I 
never  had  half  this  stuff;  I'd  know  more  than  I  do. 
All  this  stuff  .  .  .  It's  just  a  question  of  what  we  want 
to  make  of  him,  that's  all." 

"  Well,  you  know  the  requirements  down  at  the  Mill 
better  than  I  do,  of  course,"  Isabel  said.  "  Whether 


136  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

it's  a  question  of  the  college  course,  or  the  other  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course,  a  college  man  has  a  greater  opportunity. 
The  Mill  is  looking  for  college  men,  all  the  time.  But 
it's  not  a  question  of  just  making  a  successful  man  of 
him,  Isabel.  Of  course,  I  want  him  to  be  a  success; 
that's  only  natural.  But  there's  other  things  to  con- 
sider. A  liberal  education's  a  great  thing;  gives  a  man 
a  start.  If  the  boy's  got  something  in  him,  we  ought 
to  develop  it,  that's  all." 

"  I'd  like  to  have  him  a  college  man,"  Isabel  said. 
"  Of  course,  it's  too  early  to  tell  what  he's  going  to 
amount  to;  we  won't  know  that  till  he's  started  in  life." 

"  I  can  see  the  difference,  down  at  the  Mill ;  the  men 
that  have  been  to  college  are  free  in  their  tastes.  The 
others  are  apt  to  get  into  a  rut;  just  plugging  along, 
and  getting  nowhere.  Good,  honest  fellows,  too,  for 
the  most  part." 

Perhaps  Phanor  now  dimly  felt  that  since  no  one 
had  ever  told  him  what  life  was  about,  he  could  not 
tell  Amos;  at  any  rate,  he  leaned  on  college  as  a  prop. 
He  wanted  to  place  the  whole  matter  in  the  hands  of 
those  whose  business  it  was  to  take  such  responsibili- 
ties; he  could  then  tie  up  in  one  bundle  all  the  advan- 
tages of  a  college  education,  bestow  it  on  his  son,  and 
pay  the  bill.  He  said  that  paying  the  bill  was  all  he 
was  good  for,  but  he  didn't  mean  anything  by  that. 

Isabel  saw  very  plainly  that  life  lacked  something, 
and  thought  that  perhaps  college  was  the  very  thing 
to  supply  it.  But  she  hoped  that  she  should  find 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  137 

strength  not  to  interfere  in  matters  which  were,  after 
all,  none  of  a  woman's  business. 

"  I  should  say,  offhand,  that  the  college  course  was 
the  one  to  take,"  Phanor  said.  He  had  been  looking 
through  the  catalog  again,  and  found,  he  thought,  a 
certain  lack  of  distinction  in  the  other  courses. 

"That  would  be  what  I  should  say,"  Isabel  said. 
"The  application  is  right  there  in  the  front  of  the 
book." 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it." 

"  Well,  don't  you  want  to  fill  it  out  and  sign  it,  right 
now?  Then  it'll  be  done." 

"  There  you  go  again!  Always  rushing  off!  What's 
the  hurry,  all  of  a  sudden?  Why  not  take  a  little  time 
to  think  things  out,  on  an  important  thing  like  this?  " 

However,  in  the  end  he  filled  it  out  and  signed  it, 
and  spent  the  next  few  weeks  in  distrusting  colleges. 

As  for  Amos,  it  was  some  time,  naturally,  before  he 
could  get  to  sleep.  His  graduation  from  Grammar 
School  was  involved,  in  his  imagination,  with  finding 
Belle.  He  had  caught  up  a  thousand  threads  of  hopes 
and  delights  and  enthusiasms,  and  bound  them  to- 
gether in  one  enduring  fabric  of  purpose  which  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  all  conjecture  and  speculation. 
He  would  have  been  astonished  if  he  could  have  heard 
his  parents  talking  about  getting  him  started  in  life. 
In  his  view  of  the  matter,  he  was  started  now.  This 
was  not  a  thing  he  could  take  calmly. 


138  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  was  gratified  at  the  difficulty  of  going  to  sleep, 
and  made  a  martyrdom  of  it.  Next  to  being  assured 
that  Belle  cared,  it  was  most  pleasant  to  be  assured 
that  he  cared  himself.  His  inability  to  drop  off  to 
sleep  was  satisfactory  proof  of  this. 

He  thought  not  so  much  of  Belle  herself  as  of  her 
ability  to  bid  him  awake  and  see  the  dawn.  For  this 
power  he  gave  her  all  due  honor.  She  must  be  a  very 
fine  and  wonderful  person  to  be  able  to  do  this;  she 
had  made  all  the  important  things  in  life  march  out, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  one  irresistible  effort,  towards 
one  glorious  goal.  This  was  something  no  one  else  had 
been  able  to  do  for  him.  Even  Burton,  with  all  his 
culture,  had  not  been  able  to  do  it.  He  must  see  Bur- 
ton— well,  not  to  tell  him  the  whole  story,  exactly,  but 
to  confirm  things,  to  seek  out  and  find  concurrencies 
and  consistencies. 

His  habit  of  thought  then  led  him  to  the  considera- 
tion of  practical  measures.  Success  was  really  very 
dear  to  him,  for  duty  was  dear  to  him,  and  what  his 
parents  wanted  him  to  do  was  duty.  Now,  how  could 
he  turn  this  new  power  of  his  to  the  attainment  of  suc- 
cess? He  had  here  a  master  key,  which  could  unlock 
anything;  why  not  let  it  unlock  the  door  that  led 
to  the  difficult  business  of  succeeding  in  life?  Why,  a 
week  ago  he  would  have  been  normally  crushed  by  the 
thought  that  the  aim  of  life  is  the  prevention  of  hap- 
piness; now,  though  he  thought  of  it  none  the  less,  it 
did  not  seem  to  matter.  Now,  he  was  in  a  position  to 
force  the  world  to  yield  both  happiness  and  success. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  139 

Let  him  but  have  patience  and  courage,  and  the  whole 
of  life  was  solved. 

He  must  get  to  understand  Browning,  and  all  other 
poets. 

He  was  nearly  asleep. 

There  were  the  Memoirs  of  Court  Life,  too,  which 
he  had  found  in  the  library,  and  thought  very  dull; 
now  they  would  have  a  new  meaning  for  him,  and  he 
would  read  them.  How  wonderful  to  be  thus  one  with 
the  Great!  How  delighted  his  father  and  mother  would 
be,  when  he  told  them!  How  splendid  to  take  this 
thing  which  they  would  regard  as  unimportant  and 
valueless — and  even,  he  supposed,  they  would  regard 
it  as  wicked;  yes,  certainly  they  would — and  use  it  to 
make  a  better  man  of  himself,  thus  turning  it  into  an 
undeniable  virtue. 

The  question  of  marriage  did  not  once  come  into  his 
mind,  even  to  the  extent  of  his  deciding  against  it.  He 
went  to  sleep,  clutching  the  Browning,  and,  to  his  deep 
chagrin,  dreamed  nothing  whatever. 

He  awoke  very  early  the  next  morning,  and  heard 
the  birds  singing.  He  lay  for  some  time  listening, 
breathless  with  delight;  the  world  and  life,  infinitely 
lovely,  had  at  last  come  close. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  go  and  sing  be- 
neath Belle's  window — the  gray  dawn  is  breaking — but 
that  was  before  he  was  really  awake. 

When  he  had  gotten  up  and  dressed  himself,  he  sat 
at  the  sitting-room  window,  looking  out  into  Elm 
Street.  The  people  who  passed  were  people  whom  he 


140 

had  never  seen  before;  probably  they  always  passed 
at  this  time,  while  he  was  asleep  upstairs — but  what  an 
altered  aspect  they  gave  the  world ! 

He  sat  wondering  how  he  was  to  manage  to  keep  his 
grasp  of  life,  now  that  he  had  it.  He  heard  his  father's 
footstep  upstairs,  and  was  uneasy  at  once.  What 
should  he  say  when  he  was  questioned? 

He  hid  himself  under  the  sofa  in  the  parlor  while 
Phanor  came  down,  rummaged  in  the  kitchen,  took  the 
paper  from  the  front  steps,  and  went  up  again.  Then 
he  returned  to  his  place  by  the  sitting-room  window. 

Isabel  came  down  presently,  and  found  him  there. 

"  Why,  whatever's  the  matter!  "  she  cried  in  amaze- 
ment. "  What's  happened?  Are  you  sick?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered.    "  I'm  all  right." 

"  But  what  does  this  mean?  What  made  you  get  up 
so  early?  " 

"  Oh,  I  just  happened  to  wake  up,  and  I  thought  I'd 
come  down." 

"  But  what  a  funny  thing  to  do!  " 

Amos  fell  to  wondering  how  the  man  who* sang  of  the 
gray  dawn  beneath  the  window  of  Kathleen  Mavour- 
neen  managed  to  escape  his  mother's  questions.  What 
did  he  say  when  she  asked  him  what  made  him  get  up 
so  early?  It  was  like  Browning,  going  off  to  live  in 
Italy.  His  mother  must  have  made  a  fuss  about  that. 
It  must  be  that  he  had  had  no  mother.  But  were  all 
heroes  and  great  men  orphans? 

After  breakfast  he  told  Isabel  that  he  thought  he'd 
go  and  see  Mr.  Burton.  She  made  no  definite  objec- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  141 

tion,  but  said  that  she  thought  it  was  a  funny  thing 
to  do. 

On  his  way,  he  reflected  on  the  questions  he  wanted 
to  ask.  He  must  find  out  from  Burton  how  an  in- 
spired man  should  act.  If  you  suddenly  found  your- 
self in  the  grip  of  an  enthusiasm  that  would  not  let  you 
sleep,  what  did  you  do  about  it  to  make  it  seem  sane? 
If  you  were  Browning,  and,  some  morning,  told  your 
mother  that  you  thought  you'd  go  and  live  in  Italy  and 
be  a  great  man,  what  did  you  reply  when  she  said, 
"  Ho,  ho!  Look  what's  going  to  be  a  great  man!  "  By 
the  time  you'd  gotten  through  arguing  about  it,  you 
went  to  Italy  just  out  of  spite,  and  all  the  inspiration 
was  gone  out  of  it. 

Of  course,  you  could  just  run  away,  saying  nothing  to 
any  one — hide  under  the  parlor  sofa  with  your  satchel, 
and  sneak  off.  But  you  couldn't  prove  your  point  until 
you  were  really  famous,  and  that  wouldn't  be  until 
after  your  mother  was  dead.  There  could  be  little  sat- 
isfaction in  that. 

It  was  important  to  know  these  things.  Burton 
would  know. 

A  gentle  breeze  was  stirring  the  leaves  of  the  maples, 
and  the  broken  sunlight  was  dancing  on  the  floor  of 
Burton's  porch. 

Burton  came  to  the  door  himself. 

"  Hello,  old  man,"  he  said. 

Amos  noticed  a  solemnity  in  Burton's  manner,  and 
a  hush  about  the  house.  What  was  it?  Why  did 
everything  seem  so  strange? 


142  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Then  Burton  told  him  that  his  wife  was  seriously  ill; 
that  she  had  been  stricken  during  the  night;  that  the 
doctor  was  with  her,  but  could  offer,  as  yet,  little  en- 
couragement. 

"Oh!  "  cried  Amos.  "I'm  so  sorry!  Why,  I  can't 
...  it  doesn't  .  .  .  Oh,  on  such  a  beautiful  morn- 
ing! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Burton,  softly,  smiling.  "  God's  beau- 
tiful morning.  It's  as  if  Heaven  were  opened,  is  it 
not?  " 

Amos  understood,  but  could  say  nothing.  He 
choked  out  some  meaningless  words  and  turned  away. 

He  knew,  in  his  heart,  that  Mrs.  Burton  was  going 
to  die.  How  was  Burton  to  endure  it?  How  could  he 
himself  endure  it  for  him?  It  seemed  a  terrible  thing 
that  Death  could  come  walking  into  the  midst  of  life, 
take  what  he  wanted,  and  walk  out  again,  with  no  one 
able  to  protest  or  to  prevent. 

At  home,  he  wandered  about  the  house,  disconso- 
lately looking  for  something  to  do  to  pass  the  time 
until  two  o'clock,  when  he  was  to  see  Belle.  But  he 
took  good  care  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  his  mother. 

By  lunch  time  he  had  worked  himself  into  a  state  of 
loneliness  and  misery  that  made  his  heart  ache.  He  ex- 
plained his  depression  by  telling  of  Mrs.  Burton's  ill- 
ness. But  nothing  really  mattered,  now,  if  only  he 
could  see  Belle. 

They  met  on  a  street  corner.  Amos  was  early,  and 
spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  thinking  that  he  should  die 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  143 

of  anxiety  and  impatience.  But  at  last  she  came.  He 
saw  her,  like  a  queen,  coming  to  meet  him.  How  won- 
derful and  beautiful  she  was! 

He  asked  her,  first,  if  she  still  loved  him.  It  ap- 
peared that  she  did,  and  they  shyly  shook  hands,  hop- 
ing to  give  the  impression,  to  all  the  people  who  must, 
they  felt,  be  watching  them  from  windows,  that  they 
were  casual  acquaintances,  who  had  met  by  chance. 
Then,  Belle  wanted  to  know,  did  Amos  still  love  her? 
Of  course  he  did.  He  was  a  little  angry  with  her  for 
asking  it. 

Across  the  lots,  the  little  river  that  flowed  through 
the  town  ambled  out  between  some  rolling  hills,  and 
went  wandering  away  across  the  country.  This  gap  in 
the  hills  was  visible  to  them  as  they  stood  on  the  street 
corner,  and  naturally  suggested  that  they  set  out  to 
follow  the  river.  A  part  of  its  course  was  already 
known  to  Amos  and  the  other  boys  of  his  group,  be- 
cause it  afforded  several  swimming-holes  to  which  they 
were  frequent  visitors  during  the  summer.  But  be- 
yond the  swimming-holes  the  country  was  unknown 
and  undiscovered.  Several  farms  were  scattered  about, 
at  infrequent  intervals,  but  in  the  main  the  land  was 
uninhabited,  and  seemed  to  offer  the  combination  of 
adventure  and  seclusion  that  Belle  and  Amos  wanted. 

Accordingly  they  set  off  across  the  lots,  over  the 
shaky  bridge,  and  began  to  kiss  each  other  as  soon  as 
the  shoulders  of  the  hills  had  shut  them  out  from  view 
of  the  town. 

Amos  was  wise  enough  to  see  that  he  must  not  tell 


144  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Belle  of  all  the  dreams  he  had  had  since  he  had  last 
seen  her;  it  would  be  too  frank  a  confession  that  she 
was,  after  all,  no  more  than  a  means  to  an  end.  But 
he  told  her  all  the  rest  of  it,  however,  and  made  her 
happy,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  had  completely 
convinced  himself  that  it  was  Belle  he  cared  for,  and 
not  the  new  opportunities  for  life  which  she  had  given 
him.  So  they  wandered  very  happily,  hand  in  hand, 
beside  the  river. 

When  they  reached  the  first  of  the  swimming-holes— 
which,  by  some  miracle,  they  found  deserted — Belle 
suggested  that  they  go  in  swimming.  Amos  was 
pleased  with  this  dashing  idea,  finding  it  so  thoroughly 
in  accord  with  his  new  conception  of  the  freedom  and 
beauty  of  life;  it  was,  moreover,  the  very  pinnacle  and 
climax  of  desperate  wickedness,  and  seemed  fitting  for 
one  who  had  done  forever  with  his  narrow  past  and 
had  taken  up  the  study  of  poetry.  But  when  it  came 
to  actual  preparations,  they  found  that  they  lacked  the 
courage  to  proceed,  and  the  project  came  to  nothing. 

This  exploring  and  adventuring  were  new  to  Belle, 
who  had  always  before  confined  her  researches  within 
the  boundaries  of  civilization,  and  she  was  grateful  to 
Amos  for  revealing  its  possibilities.  And  before  very 
long,  as  might  have  been  expected  by  any  one  who 
had  known  her  for  a  longer  time  than  Amos,  its  effect 
on  her  became  so  pronounced  that  she  threw  overboard 
the  small  amount  of  restraint  which  her  character  had 
left  her,  and  began  to  talk  and  behave  in  a  truly  alarm- 
ing manner. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  145 

Amos  tried  for  a  time  to  enter  into  this  spirit,  and 
Belle,  under  such  encouragement,  sank  lower  and 
lower;  but,  in  the  end,  it  distressed  him  and  hurt  him. 
It  was  simply  dirtiness,  and  he  resented  its  familiarity 
with  love,  which  seemed  so  pure  and  splendid  a  thing, 
and  with  Belle,  whom  he  had  put  on  a  pedestal  in  the 
very  center  of  the  temple  where  he  worshiped.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him,  even  then,  that  his  kisses  meant  to 
her  something  vastly  different  from  what  hers  were 
meaning  to  him. 

This  wouldn't  do,  at  all.  He  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  must  risk  losing  everything,  and  protest. 

Belle  was  not  ashamed,  but  surprised.  To  her,  it 
seemed  the  height  of  absurdity  to  thus  recall  the  thread- 
bare standards  of  morality  which  she  had  deliberately 
abandoned  in  her  own  life  as  soon  as  she  found  that 
they  were  in  conflict  with  the  natural  impulses.  More- 
over, she  could  see  in  Amos'  action  only  the  folly  of  a 
man  who,  finding  a  broken  wall  between  himself  and 
the  mysterious  country  of  license,  set  to  work  to  build 
it  up  again.  She  was  astonished  that  any  one  could  be 
so  blind  to  opportunity. 

Amos  won  back  her  confidence  by  telling  her  that  he 
loved,  worshiped  and  adored  her,  and  then,  having 
made  her  willing  to  listen,  started  to  preach.  This  was 
a  field  with  which  he  was  familiar.  All  the  tenets  of 
morality  which  he  had  so  bitterly  and  scornfully  re- 
jected when  they  had  been  brought  to  his  own  attention, 
he  now  poured  out  to  her.  He  recalled  things  that  he 
had  heard  Burton  say;  he  brought  out  whole  sections 


146  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

of  Sunday  School;  he  invoked  the  True  Faith  and  the 
Divine  Revelation,  though  these  were  things  for  which 
he  had  hitherto  felt  nothing  but  incredulity  and  impa- 
tience. In  the  end,  he  asserted  that  he  was  her  lord 
and  master — which  was  true  enough,  for  she  was  his 
even  more  completely  than  he  realized — and  said  that 
he  did  not  want  her  to  act  as  she  had  been  acting,  and 
that  she  must  stop  it.  To  none  of  this  could  she  find 
any  answer,  and  she  promised  to  be  good. 

It  was  by  this  time  rather  late,  and  they  were  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  home.  As  they  started  to 
retrace  their  way,  they  gradually  regained  their  mood 
of  gaiety,  and  before  long  Amos  had  caught  her  in  his 
arms  again.  She  rebuked  him,  accusing  him  of 
naughtiness  and  of  too  soon  forgetting  his  protestations 
of  morality,  and  they  spent  another  half-hour  in  going 
over  the  same  ground  again,  while  Amos  tried  to  point 
out  the  difference  between  love  and  naughtiness. 

Finally  the  matter  was  clear  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses, and  they  separated  on  the  street  corner  where 
they  had  met,  after  almost  endless  protestations  of  love 
and  devotion. 

The  events  of  the  afternoon  made  Amos  very 
thoughtful.  The  sky  of  happiness  was  still  without  a 
cloud,  and  Belle  herself  was  no  less  dear  in  actual  pres- 
ence, or  radiant  with  bright  possibilities;  but  the  prob- 
lem of  making  her  of  practical  advantage,  of  forcing 
success  in  living  from  inspiration  in  life,  had  become 
vastly  more  difficult.  He  was  going  to  reform  her,  to 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  147 

make  her  over  into  something  which  should  better  fit 
his  conception  of  what  she  should  be,  and  what  life 
might  be. 

There  must  be  no  pulling  in  opposite  directions;  he 
had  had  enough  of  that.  All  things  must  work  to- 
gether for  good.  He  did  not  doubt  that  love  was  equal 
to  this  task,  and  he  found  courage  within  himself  to 
attempt  it. 

He  saw  that  the  campaign  was  dangerous,  since  he 
would,  in  part,  have  to  fight  himself.  He  saw  that  it 
was  difficult,  for  he  would  have  to  reconcile  and  bring 
together  two  points  of  view  which  lay  at  the  furthest 
possible  distance  from  each  other.  A  life  of  inspira- 
tion, which  moved  in  utter  disregard  of  consequences, 
must  be  brought  to  go  hand  in  hand  with  a  life  of  daily 
anxieties  which  never  made  a  move  except  for  safety. 

It  was  thus  that  the  parlor  at  97  Elm  Street  forced 
its  way  into  the  very  heart  of  existence. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PHANOR  began  to  have  a  confused  idea  in  the 
back  of  his  mind,  produced,  perhaps,  by  watch- 
ing Amos,  that  something  might  be  found  to  interest 
the  boy,  and  give  him  a  serious  view  of  life.  He  had 
no  real  idea  of  a  serious  view  of  life  himself;  he  sup- 
posed he  meant  the  ability  to  worry  about  things. 

"  Crickey!  "  he  said  one  day  to  Amos.  "  I  should 
think  you'd  like  to  do  some  experimenting — with  chem- 
istry, or  something." 

Amos  had  a  swift  vision  of  himself  in  an  acid- 
stained  gown,  pottering  about  test-tubes  and  retorts, 
while  Belle  looked  breathlessly  over  his  shoulder  to 
watch  the  outcome  of  some  great  experiment  which  had 
for  its  object  the  chemical  reconstruction  of  the  world. 

"  I  wish  there  was  some  place  around  the  house  we 
could  devote  to  it,"  Phanor  went  on,  being  perfectly 
sure  there  wasn't. 

"  Maybe  I  could  fix  up  a  shop  in  the  laundry,"  Amos 
suggested. 

"  And  burn  the  house  down,"  Phanor  said.  "  What 
would  prevent  your  putting  your  eyes  out  with  some 
explosion,  hey?  " 

The  matter  of  the  laboratory  was  never  arranged, 
and  Phanor's  idea  went  the  way  of  so  many  others. 

Phanor  had  been  looking  back  over  his  own  school 

148 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  149 

days,  and  he  could  not  remember — he  had  asked  Isabel 
about  it,  and  she  couldn't  remember,  either — any  such 
renascence  of  interest  on  graduation  from  Grammar 
School,  as  this  which  now  seemed  to  have  come  to 
Amos.  It  hadn't  made  any  great  difference  to  them  to 
get  out  of  one  school  and  into  another;  but  here  was 
Amos,  out  of  Miss  MacReady's  clutches,  leaping  eag- 
erly forward  into  a  life  of  complex  activity,  as  if  the 
whole  world  were  altered.  He  was  a  strange  boy. 

He  knew  they  wouldn't  have  minded  his  making 
friends  with  girls,  or  even  having  a  "  best  girl,"  so  long 
as  he  made  nothing  of  it  and  appeared  to  be  getting 
nothing  important  from  it;  but  Belle  was  different,  and 
he  did  not  mention  her.  It  was  plain  to  him  that  they 
were  puzzled  by  his  new  attitude — well,  they  had  fooled 
him,  often  enough. 

He  began  to  cultivate  the  library.  This  was  an  ap- 
proved source  of  knowledge,  and  made  no  threat  to 
blow  the  roof  off  the  laundry. 

Every  evening  he  brought  home  four  books — the 
maximum  number  allowed  to  one  borrower — from  the 
loan  department.  He  chose  the  most  varied  subjects, 
ranging  from  the  Theory  of  Magnetism  to  Bee-culture; 
everything  in  print  interested  him,  so  long  as  it  was  not 
school  work. 

On  the  first  floor  of  the  library,  convenient  to  the 
main  entrance,  was  a  magazine  room.  Amos  had  never 
dared  to  go  in,  for  there  was  a  sign  on  the  door  which 
stated  that  it  was  "  For  Readers  Only,"  and  he  was  not 
sure  that  he  could  include  himself  in  this  designation. 


150  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Several  times,  as  he  had  stood  hesitating  at  the  door, 
he  had  noticed  an  untidy  old  gentleman  in  a  battered 
derby  hat,  who  fussed  about  a  great  deal  among  the 
magazines,  and  once,  while  he  was  trying  to  gather 
courage  to  enter,  the  man  came  out  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  You  know  you  are  welcome  to  this  room,  do  you 
not?  "  the  old  gentleman  had  said. 

"  Well,"  Amos  answered,  apologetically,  "  I  don't 
get  much  time  to  read  magazines." 

The  old  gentleman  smiled,  and  said,  "  The  knowl- 
edge of  the  whole  world  is  here;  don't  neglect  it.  I  am 
an  inventor,  myself;  I  get  my  greatest  pleasure  in  life 
from  the  magazines." 

He  smiled  again  and  nodded  in  a  friendly  way,  and 
went  shuffling  back  into  the  magazine  room  again, 
whither  Amos  followed  him.  He  had  said,  "  I'm  an 
inventor,  myself  .  .  ."  That  "  Myself "  implied  that 
Amos  was  something,  too.  Why  had  no  one  ever 
treated  him  in  this  way  before?  It  must  be  that  he 
was  getting  to  be  some  one.  That  was  Belle's  doing,  of 
course. 

He  spent  a  great  deal  of  time,  after  this,  among  the 
magazines,  and  often  he  had  long  talks  with  the  old 
inventor,  who  never  seemed  to  be  too  busy  to  drag  out 
something  interesting.  Amos  was  delighted-  with  the 
idea  that  he  was  now  able  to  discover  people  for  him- 
self. 

Phanor  and  Isabel  sometimes  pawed  over  the  books 
which  he  brought  home,  to  discover  what  he  was  doing, 
but,  out  of  embarrassment,  they  always  waited  until 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  151 

he  had  gone  to  bed  before  they  did  this,  and  he  never 
knew  that  they  had  the  least  curiosity. 

Couldn't  they  see  that  he  was  now  on  the  road  to 
success?  Why,  it  was  life's  greatest  achievement,  and 
they  were  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course ! 

It  was  all  in  his  own  consciousness,  which  they  had 
never  entered. 

He  soon  discovered  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  him 
to  go  to  the  library  whenever  he  said  he  did;  it  was  a 
simple  matter  to  choose  some  books  in  the  afternoon, 
hide  them  in  the  feed-box  in  Wilson's  barn,  and  get 
them,  later,  after  he  had  spent  an  evening  with  Belle. 

In  the  rear  of  the  Brooke's  house  there  was  a  gar- 
den; a  smooth  grass-plot,  surrounded  by  flower  beds 
and  borders  of  high  shrubs,  backed  by  a  line  of  poplar 
trees,  in  which  the  wind  seemed  always  pattering.  In 
one  of  the  corners  remote  from  the  house,  Belle  had 
contrived  a  bower;  the  stems  of  some  of  the  shrubs  had 
been  cut  off,  and  a  few  boards,  covered  with  scraps  of 
matting,  formed  a  floor.  Here  she  would  wait,  every 
evening,  to  receive  her  lover,  who  pushed  through  a 
gap  in  the  picket  fence  at  the  rear  of  the  garden  and 
came  crawling  on  his  hands  and  knees  through  a  dark 
tunnel  among  the  leaves.  In  this  secret  seclusion  they 
spent  many  hours,  looking  up  at  the  stars  through  the 
close  foliage  overhead,  and  assuring  each  other  that  no 
two  people,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  had  ever 
been  in  love  as  they  were. 

Sometimes,  when  Frank,  the  coach-man,  spent  an 
evening  "  up  street,"  they  tiptoed  carefully  to  the  barn 


152  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

and  climbed  the  creaking  stairs  to  the  hay-loft.  It  was 
inky  black,  and  the  only  sound,  beyond  their  own 
guarded  whisperings,  was  the  gentle  ticking  noise  in  the 
hay;  they  could  hear  the  rattle  of  distant  wagon  wheels 
in  the  street  outside,  and  used  to  enjoy  the  thought  that 
the  world  was  going  by,  unknowing  of  their  existence, 
leaving  them  alone  and  happy.  Once  or  twice,  Frank 
came  home  earlier  than  usual,  and  then  the  adventure 
of  getting  out,  past  his  door,  was  one  of  delicious  dan- 
ger. They  held  tight  to  each  other's  hands,  refused  to 
breathe,  and  moved  an  inch  at  a  time. 

At  nine  o'clock,  a  curfew  was  rung  on  the  bell  of  the 
dingy  little  wooden  chapel  that  stood  across  the  street 
from  the  school-house,  and  this  was  the  signal  for  sep- 
aration. The  time  came,  inexorably,  for  one  last  kiss, 
one  final  good  night,  one  more  desperate  clinging  to- 
gether, on  breaking  which  they  seemed  to  leave  their 
hearts  behind;  it  was  as  if  the  world  had  ended,  and 
naked  empty  space  rushed  up  from  every  side  to  over- 
whelm them. 

Then  Amos  tiptoed  down  the  length  of  the  garden  on 
the  quiet  grass,  wriggled  through  the  gap  in  the  fence, 
and  went  home  heart-sick  with  loneliness.  He  got  his 
books  from  the  feed-box  in  the  barn,  and  presented 
himself  in  the  sitting-room,  fresh  from  the  library. 

This  went  on  for  some  time,  and  then  Waddy  Brooke 
discovered  the  bower  in  the  garden.  He  removed  the 
boards  and  matting;  Belle  and  Amos  put  them  back 
again.  He  led  his  friends  to  the  spot,  and  broke  in 
upon  them,  time  and  again,  with  jeers  and  cries  of 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  153 

"  shame!  "  They  shifted  to  the  hay-loft,  and  Waddy 
found  them  there;  he  told  Frank  to  be  on  the  look-out 
for  them,  and  destroyed  the  secret  with  laughter  and 
teasing  songs.  In  the  end  they  were  driven  out,  and 
sought  seclusion  farther  from  home. 

On  the  other  side  of  Arbor  Avenue,  there  was  a  large 
open  field,  given  over  to  the  storage  of  horse-cars.  On 
long,  uneven  lines  of  track  that  sprawled  across  the 
field  the  winter  cars  stood  in  compact  ranks,  their  doors 
closed,  the  blinds  drawn  up  before  their  windows.  The 
yard  was  but  a  few  blocks  from  Belle's  house;  it  was 
always  deserted.  Belle  and  Amos  claimed  it,  as  a 
sanctuary,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  escaped  the  prying 
world.  They  met  at  the  corner  of  the  yard,  under  the 
black  shadow  of  a  spreading  beech  tree,  and  crept  to- 
gether down  the  long  alley  between  the  tracks  until 
756,  which  was  the  number  of  the  car  they  had  selected 
as  their  own,  loomed  before  them  in  the  starlight.  They 
pushed  open  the  sliding  door,  and  closed  it  noiselessly 
behind  them. 

It  was  a  perfect  hiding-place,  and  they  enjoyed  the 
secrecy  of  it  even  more  than  the  seclusion  that  it 
afforded  them,  for,  beyond  assuring  each  other  that 
they  were  in  love,  and  making  further  plans  for  daring 
escapades  and  dangerous  adventures,  they  had  nothing 
to  talk  about.  Amos  knew  that  Belle  was  not  inter- 
ested in  his  plans  for  himself;  she  did  not  care  for  the 
person  he  hoped  some  day  to  be;  she  cared  for  him  as 
he  was,  and  he  tried  to  be  satisfied.  She  even  enjoyed 
his  attempts  at  reforming  her,  and  used  to  try  to  pro- 


154  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

voke  them,  for  restraint,  to  her,  was  a  rather  pleasant 
novelty. 

"Listen,  darling  little  girl;  God  sees  everything 
you  do,  do  you  know  it,  and  hears  everything  you 
say." 

"  I'll  bet  it  shocks  Him,  then,"  Belle  would  answer. 

The  officials  of  the  horse-car  Company  had  noticed, 
through  the  eyes  of  their  watchman,  dim  figures  prowl- 
ing about  in  the  winter  storage  yard,  and  they  had  na- 
turally thought  that  a  band  of  tramps  was  using  the 
cars  as  a  refuge.  Several  extra  watchmen  were  hired 
to  put  a  stop  to  this  outrage,  and  these  men  used  often 
to  see  Belle  and  Amos  meeting  under  the  beech  tree 
and  disappearing  again  at  once  into  the  center  of  the 
yard.  But  they  were  clumsy  men,  making  a  great  deal 
of  noise  as  they  moved  about,  and  Belle  and  Amos 
had  no  difficulty  in  avoiding  them.  It  was  an  added 
delight  to  hide  and  crawl  under  and  double  back  on  the 
trail,  and  there  was  a  thrill  in  arriving  safe,  their  pur- 
suers eluded,  at  their  own  756. 

Several  times,  while  Amos  was  holding  Belle  in  his 
arms,  lecturing  passionately  to  her  on  the  beauties  of 
Virtue,  he  was  stopped  by  the  steps  of  the  watchman  on 
the  gravel  outside.  All  this  had  the  pleasure  of  dan- 
gerous intrigue. 

But  the  watchmen  never  discovered  anything,  and 
they  were  called  off,  after  a  time.  The  lovers,  being 
rather  bored  with  their  meager  topic  of  conversation, 
began,  little  by  little,  to  seek  further  afield  for  their 
adventures.  They  wanted  something  more  hazardous. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  155 

From  time  to  time  they  had  ventured  to  meet  in 
broad  daylight.  These  meetings  increased  in  fre- 
quency, and  even  took  them  into  Center  Street,  where 
they  were,  of  course,  in  constant  danger  of  being  seen 
together.  Indeed,  several  times  they  were  actually 
identified  by  people  who  knew  one  or  the  other  of  them, 
but,  as  it  happened,  no  word  of  this  ever  reached 
Phanor  and  Isabel. 

One  afternoon  in  August,  they  went  to  the  theater, 
where  they  sat  hi  a  stuffy  peanut-gallery,  holding  hands 
through  a  dozen  stupid  acts  of  vaudeville,  and  when 
they  emerged  again  and  started  home,  their  way  led 
them  directly  past  the  Mill.  Perhaps  it  was  later  in 
the  afternoon  than  they  realized;  perhaps  Phanor  was 
leaving  his  work  earlier  than  usual;  at  any  rate,  just  as 
they  were  passing  the  office  door,  he  came  out,  and 
almost  ran  into  them. 

They  stopped  in  their  tracks,  frozen  with  horror. 
Phanor,  who  was  so  thoroughly  embarrassed  that  he 
hardly  knew  what  he  was  doing,  scowled  darkly  at 
them  under  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and  then,  pretending 
not  to  have  seen  them,  ran  across  the  street  and  ducked 
out  of  sight  behind  a  corner. 

Belle  and  Amos  stood  for  a  moment  whispering  to- 
gether, and  then  separated  suddenly,  taking  opposite 
directions. 

Now  it  had  happened.  There  was  no  possible  doubt 
that  Amos  had  been  seen,  walking  down  Center  Street 
with  a  girl,  and  no  possible  doubt  of  the  consequences. 

He  set  off,  walking  rapidly,  but  aimlessly,  through 


156  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

unfrequented  streets,  to  try  to  gain  time  to  think  out  a 
suitable  plan  of  action.  He  was  to  go  on  trial;  his 
whole  life  was  to  be  put  to  the  test.  What  should 
he  do? 

Belle  was  too  obviously  beautiful  to  allow  of  any 
misunderstanding  of  her  function;  if  he  had  been  seen 
with  such  a  girl,  he  must  be  in  love  with  her.  He 
couldn't  pretend  to  his  father  that  she  was  a  school- 
teacher, or  some  one  whom  he  had  met  by  chance.  No; 
the  secret  was  out. 

Maybe  his  father  would  clap  him  on  the  shoulder 
and  say,  "  Crickey,  boy!  She's  wonderful!  I  never  in 
my  life  saw  such  a  ..."  This  fancy  showed  Amos 
that  he  was  plainly  going  crazy  with  worry,  and  he  set 
about  being  more  practical. 

Well,  he  must  get  out  of  the  scrape  in  some  manner 
or  other. 

There  seemed  nothing  for  it  but  a  complete  confes- 
sion. He  would  tell  Phanor — well,  perhaps  that  would 
be  unnecessarily  difficult — he  would  tell  his  mother, 
then,  the  whole  story,  from  first  to  last:  how  he  had 
met  Belle,  and  had  been  caught  by  her  beauty  and  her 
frankness  to  acknowledge  love,  and  how  he  had  loved 
her  passionately  and  devotedly  all  these  months— 
surely,  they  would  believe  that,  now  that  they  had  seen 
her!  They  might  be  able  to  judge,  he  would  say,  of 
the  violence  and  inevitability  of  his  love  when  they 
learned  of  all  the  subterfuges  he  had  been  obliged  to 
adopt  to  gain  freedom  to  see  her.  He  would  tell  them 
that  there  were,  indeed,  things  about  her  that  he  did  not 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  157 

like,  but  that  these  things  hadn't  hurt  him,  and  that  he 
was  doing  his  best  to  change  them,  in  which  task  he 
had  already  made  considerable  progress.  Finally,  he 
would  say  that  she  had  opened  to  him  all  the  loveliness 
of  life,  which  he  had  so  far  sought  in  vain,  and  would 
beg  them  to  let  him  save  his  own  soul,  since  he  had  dis- 
covered it  by  his  own  independence  and  action. 

This,  he  thought,  would  make  a  case  too  strong  for 
them  to  resist;  he  even  fancied  that  they  might  be  a 
little  proud  of  him.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  they 
would  not  approve,  but  he  knew,  also,  that  though  he 
was  innocent,  in  a  strict  sense,  they  would  believe  him 
guilty,  and  might,  conceivably,  honor  his  own  courage 
in  daring  to  sow  a  few  wild  oats  for  himself. 

The  argument  was  going  fairly  well  in  his  mind,  and 
he  was  succeeding  brilliantly  with  his  parents,  when  he 
came  face  to  face  with  a  new  actuality,  and  stopped 
short.  He  was  in  front  of  Burton's  house.  There  was 
crape  on  the  door. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  staring  blankly.  He  would 
have  given  anything  if  he  could  have  been  transported 
to  the  other  side  of  the  earth ;  then  he  would  have  time 
to  think  out  some  adequate  course  while  he  was  mak- 
ing his  way  back  again. 

His  natural  impulse  was  to  rush  in,  find  Burton,  and 
assure  him  that  he  was  understood,  and  was  not  alone. 
But  he  saw  that  the  shades  were  tightly  drawn  at  the 
parlor  windows,  and,  knowing  what  that  meant,  he 
did  not  dare  go  up  and  ring  the  bell.  He  turned  away 


158  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

and  started  home,  thinking  that  he  could  better  face 
the  situation  he  had  prepared  himself  to  meet  than  this 
which  had  come  upon  him  so  unexpectedly. 

But  as  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  street  and  looked 
across  the  intervening  yard  at  the  back  of  Burton's 
house,  he  saw  Burton  himself,  sitting  on  the  steps.  He 
stopped,  and  watched.  Burton  clenched  his  hands  be- 
fore him,  and  gazed  into  space;  he  stood  up  suddenly, 
took  a  few  steps,  and  then  returned  and  sat  down  again, 
sinking  into  a  heap  and  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands.  There  was  a  world  of  sorrow  in  the  gesture, 
and  a  pitiful  confession  of  weakness. 

Amos  vaulted  the  fence,  ran  across  the  yard,  and 
came  up  the  path  to  where  Burton  was  sitting. 

"  God  bless  you!  "  Burton  cried,  when  he  looked  up 
and  saw  him.  "You  came!  You  didn't  forget  me!  " 
He  put  his  hands  on  Amos'  shoulders  and  wept,  quite 
openly,  before  him.  "  There  isn't  anybody  in  the 
world,"  he  managed  to  say,  "  that  I'd  rather  see  at  this 
moment." 

"  I  ...  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  .  .  .  that  you 
weren't  alone,"  Amos  said. 

"Thank  you,"  Burton  said.  "It's  just  what  I 
need." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do;  I  can't  say  any- 
thing." 

"  It's  all  right;  all  right.  You  don't  have  to  say 
anything.  I'm  glad  you  came;  just  glad.  Sit  down 
beside  me  here,  and  we'll  talk." 

Amos  sat  down.    There  was  a  pain  in  Burton's  eyes 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  159 

that  he  couldn't  face.  It  was  the  worst  thing  he  had 
ever  seen;  it  made  him  afraid  that  nothing  would  ever 
come  right  again. 

"  It's  hard  to  see  the  justice  in  this  .  .  .  this  that's 
happened,"  Burton  said,  after  a  time.  "  Sometimes  it 
seems  as  if  God  wasn't  just.  You  understand?  " 

Amos  nodded.  He  knew  what  he  should  feel  if 
Belle  should  die.  He  wanted  to  tell  of  Belle,  to  pour 
out  generously  the  happiness  he  had,  and  let  Burton 
share  it;  he  wanted,  too,  to  say  that  he  was  in  trouble 
himself.  But  this  was  impossible,  under  the  circum- 
stances. Burton,  he  supposed,  had  loved  his  wife; 
well,  she  had  gone  now,  and  he  must  manage  to  love 
what  he  could. 

"  Oh,  God  is  cruel!  "  Burton  cried  suddenly.  "  What 
right  had  He?  What  right!  To  give,  and  then  to  take 
away!  I've  been  tricked  and  cheated,  by  a  God  who 
steals!  " 

"  Wait,  now;  wait,"  Amos  said.  "  I  don't  think  God 
did  this.  It's  what  you've  often  told  me,  yourself; 
when  a  man's  in  trouble  .  .  ."  He  broke  off,  and  then 
added,  "  Besides,  there's  all  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  to  me  what's  left,"  Burton  said 
smiling,  weakly. 

"  It  does,  though,"  Amos  said.    "  It's  got  to." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I'm  ashamed  to  talk  so.  But  I've 
been  desperate.  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of 
me.  I've  had  terrible  thoughts.  I'm  not  better  than 
other  men." 

For  some  time  they  sat  there,  trying  to  talk;  Amos 


160  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

was  dragged  deeper  and  deeper,  and  found  less  and  less 
to  say.  He  had  supposed  that  people  were  somehow 
lifted  out  of  themselves,  and  exalted,  in  moments  like 
these.  But  Burton  was  lowered;  he  had  lost  his  grip, 
and  was  saying  that  he  was  not  better  than  other  men. 

"  It's  helped  me  to  see  you,"  Burton  said,  getting  up 
when  Amos  rose  to  leave  him. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  I'm  going  to  High  School,  you 
know,  in  the  Fall.  I'll  come  around,  often,  and  we'll 
talk,  like  we  used  to.  Good-by.  Take  care  of  your- 
self." 

He  climbed  over  the  fence  again.  When  he  looked 
back,  Burton  waved  his  hand. 

They  never  met  again  but  once,  in  all  their  lives. 

When  Amos  reached  home,  he  looked  fearfully  into 
the  parlor  as  he  came  through  the  hall.  Phanor  was 
not  there.  This  was  good  news;  it  meant  that  the 
trouble  had  been  turned  over  to  Isabel  for  adjustment. 
Phanor  was  sulky  and  silent,  and  Isabel  looked 
frightened. 

Yet  Phanor  spoke  first,  to  start  matters. 

"  Well,  where  have  you  been?  "  he  asked. 

That  was  just  like  his  father,  Amos  thought;  to  give 
him  a  chance  to  lie,  if  he  wanted  to.  But  he  had  de- 
cided to  tell  the  truth. 

"  I've  been  to  see  Mr.  Burton,"  he  said.  "  Mrs. 
Burton's  dead." 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity!  What  a  pity!  "  Isabel  cried. 
"  When  did  it  happen?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  161 

"  I  don't  know,"  Amos  answered,  wondering  what 
difference  it  made.  "  I've  just  come  from  there." 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Burton?  He  feels  terribly,  of 
course?  " 

Amos  nodded.  "  He  feels  rotten.  He's  talking  about 
being  a  bum;  he  says  he  hasn't  got  anything  left  to  be 
good  for." 

Isabel  looked  shocked,  but  made  an  effort  to  get  it 
out  of  her  mind  at  once. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  believe  that,"  she  said.  "  He's  such  a 
good  man." 

"  He  was,  you  mean,"  Amos  corrected  her.  He  had 
an  idea  that  he  might  create  the  impression  that  there 
was  a  loosening  of  moral  restraint  going  on  all  over  the 
world;  if  this  were  true,  his  own  sins  might  be  taken 
more  as  a  sign  of  the  times. 

During  supper,  Phanor  and  Isabel  asked  various 
questions,  trying  to  grasp  the  reality  of  Burton's  ex- 
perience, but  there  was  no  more  talk  of  his  possible  fall 
from  Grace.  Such  subjects  were  better  left  alone. 
Also,  so  to  speak,  they  didn't  like  to  bring  trouble  to  a 
funeral.  But  half  an  hour's  talk  sufficed  for  a  tribute 
to  Burton's  grief,  and  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  finished, 
Isabel  stirred  up  her  courage,  and  began  the  inquisition. 

"  And  where  did  you  go  this  afternoon?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  the  theater." 

"Who  with?" 

Amos  hesitated  for  a  second.  Should  he  tell  now? 
No;  later. 


1 62  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  I  went  with  a  girl,"  he  said.  This,  in  itself,  would 
have  caused  an  eruption,  if  they  hadn't  known  more 
already. 

"  What  girl?  " 

"  Oh,  a  girl  I  know." 

"  But  who  was  she?  " 

"  What  does  it  matter  who  she  was?  " 

"  Why,  mother  just  asked!  You're  not  ashamed  of 
it,  I  hope." 

"  Of  course  not.    What  do  you  think  I  am?  " 

"  Well,  then,  tell  me  who  she  was.  I  shouldn't  mind 
a  bit,  you  know,  if  it  was  a  nice  girl." 

Amos  hesitated  again.  This  was  rather  too  much 
like  discussing  Belle's  character  in  public.  The  at- 
mosphere wasn't  very  favorable  for  an  enthusiastic 
confession,  that  was  sure. 

"  Was  it  a  nice  girl?  " 

Phanor  interrupted  impatiently,  rattling  his  paper. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  your  mother's  question?  " 
he  asked. 

"Well,  I  went  with  a  girl  by  the  name  of  Belle 
Brooke,  if  you  want  to  know." 

He  had  not  imagined  that  the  name,  now  that  it  was 
finally  out,  would  mean  anything  to  them.  But  it 
seemed  otherwise. 

"  Belle  Brooke!  "  Phanor  and  Isabel  repeated  it  to- 
gether, in  tones  of  the  utmost  horror. 

Isabel  looked  up  at  him,  flushing  in  shame. 

'Why,  Amos  Enday!  "  she  exclaimed. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  163 

She  could  not  possibly  have  been  more  shocked  and 
humiliated,  no  matter  what  she  had  discovered. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  the 
street  with  a  girl  like  that,"  Isabel  said. 

"Great  God,  boy!  "  cried  Phanor.  "Haven't  you 
got  any  decency?  " 

"  What's  all  the  fuss  about?  "  Amos  demanded.  "  I 
guess  I  can  walk  down  the  street  with  a  girl  if  I  want 
to,  can't  I?  " 

"  Not  with  that  girl." 

"  What  a  blackguard  you  are,  anyway!  "  Phanor  put 
in.  "  Why  can't  you  have  a  little  self-respect?  " 

"  Belle  Brooke's  not  a  proper  girl  for  you  to  asso- 
ciate with,"  Isabel  said,  firmly.  She  evidently  thought 
that  she  was  telling  Amos  something,  and  that,  having 
told  it,  there  would  be  an  end  of  the  matter.  But  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  explain. 

Phanor  was  not  so  reticent. 

"  Of  all  the  low,  vile,  dirty  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"  You're  not  being  very  polite,  yourself,"  Amos  cut 
in,  angrily. 

"  Don't  talk  back,"  Isabel  admonished  him. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  what  right  you've  got  to  talk  to 
me  that  way,"  he  said.  "After  all,  I  did  go  to  the 
theater  with  her,  and  I  should  think  you'd  .  .  ." 

"  There,  don't  drag  me  in,  if  you  please,"  Isabel 
said. 

"  You  came  in  yourself,"  Amos  retorted.  "  I  didn't 
ask  you  what  you  thought  of  my  friends." 


164  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  I  hope  you  don't  call  that  girl  one  of  your  friends!  " 

"  Why  the  devil  don't  you  keep  away  from  low  asso- 
ciates! "  Phanor  said. 

"  Now,  Phanor,  be  careful.  The  boy  meant  no 
harm.  You  didn't  know,  did  you,  Amos?  " 

Oh,  let  them  go!  Amos  thought.  They  don't  know 
what  they're  talking  about! 

He  said,  "No!  " 

"  Well,  let  that  end  it,  then,"  said  Isabel,  primly. 
"  I  shouldn't  mind  if  it  was  a  nice  girl,  but  ...  I'm 
glad  we  warned  you  in  time,  before  there  was  any  harm 
done.  We'll  say  no  more  about  it." 

This  was  getting  out  of  it  easier  than  Amos  had  ex- 
pected. Why,  he  had  not  been  obliged  to  fight  for  his 
life  at  all! 

"  And  you're  to  keep  away  from  her  in  the  future, 
too!  "  Phanor  said.  "  You  hear?  " 

"Of  course  I  hear,"  Amos  answered.  "What  do 
you  think?  " 

So  it  was  over. 

Amos  was  distressed  to  learn  that  Belle's  reputation 
had  spread  so  far.  Oh,  if  she  had  only  been  more 
careful,  how  much  simpler  everything  would  have  been ! 
If  only  he  could  have  told  his  story,  as  he  had  at  first 
intended!  Now,  he  would  have  to  go  on  in  the  same 
old  way,  and  his  parent's  knowledge  of  the  situation 
added  nothing.  He  had  no  thought  of  giving  up;  it 
was  natural  to  accept  love,  when  it  was  found,  and 
make  the  rest  of  life  conform  to  it. 

He  must  be  sure,  however,  that  Belle  was  com- 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  165 

pletely  reformed,  before  there  was  any  further  dis- 
covery. 

But  further  discovery  followed  immediately. 

Amos  did  not  see  Belle  all  the  next  day.  He  kept 
in  sight  of  his  mother  as  much  as  possible,  and  noted 
that  it  seemed  to  reassure  her. 

But  in  the  evening,  when  they  were  all  sitting  quietly 
at  home,  the  bell  rang,  and  Amos,  prompted  by  some 
instinct,  went  to  the  door  himself.  There  stood  a  mite 
of  a  child,  whom  he  recognized  as  one  of  the  family  of 
mites  who  lived  across  the  street  from  Belle;  she 
handed  up  a  closely  folded  note,  and  vanished  into  the 
darkness  without  a  word. 

Amos  unfolded  the  paper,  and  read: 

My  dearest  darling  dear: 

I  can't  give  you  up.  Come  to  756  quick  when  you  get 
this  and  tell  me  all.  I  suppose  they  think  .  .  . 

There  was  another  line,  and  then  the  initials,  "  B.  B." 

"  Who  was  that?  "  Isabel  asked,  when  Amos  had 
returned  to  the  sitting-room. 

"Just  somebody  that  wanted  to  know  where  the 
Fleetwoods  lived,"  he  said.  "  Just  a  kid." 

He  went  back  to  his  chair  for  a  moment,  and  took 
up  the  book  he  had  been  reading,  trying  to  think  out  a 
plan  for  escape.  In  a  moment  he  had  hit  it,  and  with- 
out waiting  for  deliberation  to  spoil  his  acting,  he 
jumped  to  his  feet  and  said: 

"  Gee,  I  nearly  forgot  1     I've  got  some  books  that 


1 66  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

have  got  to  go  back  to  the  library  to-night!  I'll  have 
to  go  right  up." 

"  Oh,  you'd  better  wait  till  morning,  I  should  think." 
Isabel  said. 

"  No,  then  I'll  have  to  pay  a  fine." 

Before  she  could  speak  again  he  had  found  his  cap, 
and  was  gone.  The  books,  of  course,  went  into  the 
feed-box,  and  Amos,  as  hard  as  he  could  run,  went  to 
the  car-yard,  where  Belle  was  waiting  for  him,  tearful, 
frightened,  adorable,  thinking  that  she  had  lost  him 
forever. 

His  excuse  about  the  books,  of  course,  had  been  thin 
enough,  and  he  marvelled  that  it  had  succeeded  so  well. 
The  next  morning,  however,  it  developed  that  he  had 
dropped  the  note  on  the  floor  in  the  hall,  in  his  haste 
and  excitement,  and  that  Isabel  and  Phanor  had  found 
it  and  read  it. 

There  was  the  whole  story.  The  "  dearest  darling 
dear  "  showed  how  far  matters  had  gone.  The  "  756  " 
indicated  a  secret,  and  well-known,  meeting  place.  Isa- 
bel saw  clearly  enough  who  were  the  "  they  "  who  were 
accused  of  being  so  ready  to  think  evil,  and  with  burn- 
ing cheeks,  she  destroyed  the  note. 

After  breakfast,  when  Phanor  had  gone  to  the  Mill, 
she  took  Amos  "  aside  "  for  a  "  talk."  So  eager  was 
she  to  discover  that  the  whole  thing  was  some  hideous 
sort  of  mistake,  that  she  actually  accepted  Amos'  in- 
dignant denial  of  all  knowledge  of  the  matter,  though 
the  evidence  had  been  in  her  own  hands  not  ten  hours 
before.  He  lied,  and  she  believed  him.  She  did  not 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  167 

care  to  ask  him  if  he  had  really  been  to  the  library, 
because  she  was  fearful  of  learning  that  he  had  not. 
She  let  fall  a  few  vague  hints  and  warnings,  and  dis- 
missed him. 

As  the  hours  passed,  however,  she  began  to  regret 
her  timidity.  Had  she  made  it  clear  to  him  that  he  was 
surrounded  by  danger?  Had  she  sufficiently  punished 
him  for  his  sin?  She  felt  that  she  had  not  done  these 
things,  with  true  conscientiousness,  but  she  hated  to 
come  back  to  a  subject  so  humiliating. 

The  worst  of  all  calamities  had  befallen.  A  low 
designing  woman  had  caught  her  son.  She  saw  ruin 
all  about  her,  and  Amos  walking  unconscious — for  she 
still  did  not  believe  that  he  understood  a  word  of  what 
Belle  had  written — into  the  very  center  and  deepest 
pit  of  it.  The  agonizing  horror  of  that  thought  dragged 
her  from  the  chair  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  sent 
her  wandering  restlessly  around  the  room,  clenching 
her  hands,  biting  her  lips,  stopping,  in  sudden  efforts 
at  calmness,  to  rearrange  the  trivial  articles  on  her 
bureau. 

All  her  life,  she  had  known  that  if  certain  things 
happened,  ruin  followed — no,  not  followed,  but  oc- 
curred as  an  immediate  concurrent  fact.  She  did  not 
stop  to  consider  how  it  was  that,  now  that  the  worst 
had  happened — or  might  have  happened,  for  all  she 
knew  to  the  contrary — ruin  was  not  present  at  all.  If 
she  had  raised  her  eyes,  she  would  have  seen  that 
"  ruin  "  was  nowhere  in  sight.  But  it  was  present  in 
her  mind;  that  was  where  the  whole  trouble  was. 


168  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Should  she  plead  with  Amos,  and  try  to  show  him  his 
folly?  She  dared  not  do  so;  she  might  put  thoughts  in 
his  head.  Should  she  forbid  him  all  contact  with  the 
world?  She  knew  that  this  was  impossible.  If  Amos 
had  returned  home — after  what  she  would  have  called 
his  "  fall " — contrite  and  broken,  with  his  shame  on 
his  soul,  she  could  have  forgiven  him.  But  he  had  not 
run  away;  he  was  not  contrite  at  all;  his  shame  seemed 
not  to  have  touched  him;  he  asked  no  forgiveness.  If 
only  it  hadn't  happened!  If  only,  as  second  best,  it 
had  been  worse,  so  that  she  might  take  the  simple  and 
extreme  measures  that  were  prescribed! 

She  saw  that  she  must  discover  more.  When,  that 
evening,  Amos  announced  that  he  was  going  to  the 
library,  she  put  on  her  hat,  as  soon  as  the  door  had 
closed  behind  him,  and,  trumping  up  some  excuse  for 
Phanor,  followed  him.  Under  the  windows  of  the  maga- 
zine room  there  was  a  rack  for  bicycles;  she  climbed  to 
the  top  of  it,  clutching  the  window-sill,  and  saw  Amos 
seated  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  his  friend  the  old  in- 
ventor, absorbed  in  a  magazine.  She  went  home  happy 
and  satisfied. 

Serenity  gradually  and  painfully  accumulated.  It 
was  impossible  to  believe,  for  any  very  extended  period, 
that  reality  existed.  People  passed  up  and  down  Elm 
Street,  before  the  parlor  windows;  people  were  like 
that.  What  had  the  parlor  to  do  with  them?  They 
might  be  wicked,  or  courageous;  they  might  fail,  or 
struggle;  they  might  even,  possibly,  be  people  who  saw 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  169 

that  life  was  what  they  themselves  found  it  to  be — but 
that  was  none  of  the  parlor's  business.  Why,  the  par- 
lor was  established  and  completed;  why  all  this  fuss 
about  adjustment  to  new  conditions?  Things  hap- 
pened, yes — that  was  lamentably  true — but  they  hap- 
pened outside,  in  the  changing  world,  and  the  parlor 
need  not  concern  itself  with  them.  Life  wasn't  all 
beautifully  systematic  and  orderly — there  was  no  use 
denying  it — but  if  people  insisted  on  going  their  own 
way,  up  and  down  Elm  Street — well,  see  what  the 
result  was! 

No,  no!  The  whole  miserable  affair  simply  was  not 
true.  Phanor  and  Isabel  hoped  so  hard  that  it  had  not 
happened  that  it  seemed  not  to  have  happened. 

Within  the  week,  however,  it  happened  again. 

"I'm  going  to  the  theater  with  Bert,"  Amos  said. 
"  That's  all  right,  isn't  it?  " 

"Why,  certainly,"  Isabel  told  him.  "I've  no  ob- 
jection to  your  going  with  Bert." 

"  Well,  you  made  such  a  fuss,  the  last  time,  that  I 
thought  I'd  ask."  He  was  guarding  against  her  sus- 
picions, not  knowing  that  she  had  none  left. 

She  saw  to  it  that  he  had  a  clean  handkerchief,  and 
sent  him  off. 

But  about  an  hour  after  he  had  gone,  the  bell  rang. 
Phanor  went  to  the  door  himself.  There  stood  Bert. 

"  Can  Amos  come  up  to  the  library  with  me?  "  Bert 
asked. 


170  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  was  with  you  already!  "  Pha- 
n«r  exclaimed,  not  having  wit  enough  to  hold  his 
tongue.  "  He  said  you  were  going  to  the  theater." 

"  Oh,  well,"  Bert  answered  quickly.  "  There's  been 
some  mistake.  I  just  thought  we  might  go  to  the  thea- 
ter, if  Amos  had  nothing  else  to  do." 

"  Well,  but  see  here  .  .  .  won't  you  come  in?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.    I  guess  I'll  run  along." 

And  Bert,  accordingly,  ran  along. 

Of  course,  he  went  to  the  theater,  in  order  to  warn 
Amos  of  his  danger,  and  waited  outside  the  doors  when 
the  performance  was  finished,  but  he  missed  Belle  and 
Amos  in  the  crowd,  and  returned  defeated.  He  made 
another  attempt,  and  hung  around  the  corner  of  Elm 
Street,  still  hoping  to  find  them,  but  they  had  been  in 
no  hurry  to  return,  and  Bert  had  at  last  given  it  up, 
concluding  that  they  had  gone  home  by  some  other 
route,  or  that  they  had  omitted  the  theater  altogether. 

In  consequence,  when  Amos  came  in,  Phanor  was 
waiting  for  him  in  the  parlor. 

"  Well,  what  does  this  mean?  " 

"  What  does  what  mean?  " 

"  Where  have  you  been?  " 

"  To  the  theater  with  Bert,  like  I  said  I  would." 

"  Oh,  is  that  so?  "  Phanor  said,  sarcastically.  "  Then 
maybe  you'll  tell  me  how  it  happened  that  Bert  was 
around  here,  after  you  left,  asking  where  you 
were." 

Amos  thought:  why  didn't  I  have  sense  enough  to 
tell  Bert  about  it? 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  171 

"  Well,  how  about  it?  "  Phanor  asked.  "  You  young 
liar!  " 

"  I  haven't  got  anything  to  say,"  Amos  said.  "  If 
you  don't  want  to  believe  me,  you  haven't  got  to." 

"I  should  say  not.  You  know  perfectly  well  the 
whole  story  is  a  lie,  from  start  to  finish." 

It  occurred  to  Amos  to  retort,  "  Suit  yourself.  I'm  a 
liar,  if  it's  any  comfort  to  you."  But  it  seemed  wiser, 
under  the  circumstances,  to  say,  "Yes,  sir,"  and  he 
said  it. 

Then,  while  his  father  was  stuttering  and  staring 
after  him,  he  turned  quickly  and  left  the  room. 

Upstairs,  Phanor  and  Isabel  lay  long  awake  and  dis- 
cussed the  situation;  it  was  a  discussion  which  became 
a  bitter  argument. 

"  The  boy's  just  a  common  damn  liar,"  Phanor  said. 

"  What  a  thing  to  say!  " 

"  Humph!  I  don't  see  what  else  you  could  say  about 
it!  Tell  me  some  cock  and  bull  story,  will  he?  " 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  went  with  that  girl?  " 

"  Of  course  he  did!  What's  the  reason  he  wanted 
to  lie  about  it,  if  he  wasn't  doing  something  he  was 
ashamed  of?  " 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  terrible!  The  way  that  girl  influences 
him!  Blind  infatuation  just  leads  him  on  and  on. 
He's  not  a  bad  boy;  he  don't  mean  to  tell  lies.  But 
every  time  we  find  out  something  he  has  to  .  .  ." 

"  What's  the  sense  of  saying  a  thing  like  that,  Isa- 
bel? It's  not  the  girl's  fault,  is  it?  He  just  hasn't  got 
any  truth  in  him." 


172  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Why,  of  course  it's  the  girl's  fault.  He  wouldn't 
turn  around  and  say  things  like  that  unless  she  put 
him  up  to  it." 

"  Crickey,  that's  gratitude  for  you !  All  the  expense 
I've  been  to  to  bring  him  up  decently  and  give  him  an 
education,  and  he  don't  show  the  slightest  apprecia- 
tion of  it!  Young  cub!  " 

"  Now,  Phanor,  what's  the  good  of  saying  that?  " 

"  Good?  Good?  Lord's  sake,  woman,  what  are  you 
talking  about?  Here  I  go  and  try  to  show  the  boy  how 
to  live  a  decent  life,  and  keep  him  away  from  evil  asso- 
ciates, and  he  runs  straight  off  and  picks  out  some  low 
dirty  Mick!  And  then,  by  God,  he  has  to  come  home 
and  lie  to  me  about  it!  Try  to  tell  me  I'm  a  med- 
dling old  prig,  will  he?  " 

"  Oh,  to  think  how  terrible  it  all  is!  "  Isabel  wailed. 

"  Now,  there  you  go !  What's  the  good  of  taking 
that  attitude?  The  boy's  just  got  to  be  made  decent, 
that's  all.  Do  you  think  I  enjoy  having  it  said  that  a 
son  of  mine  is  a  good-for-nothing  liar,  running  around 
with  dirty  Micks?  Lord,  I'm  ashamed  to  hold  up  my 
head  in  the  street!  " 

"  Phanor!  You  don't  mean  to  say  people  know  about 
it?" 

"  I  suppose  they  can  put  two  and  two  together. 
What  the  boy  can  be  thinking  of,  to  bring  disgrace  on 
us,  I  can't  see.  Rotten,  shiftless,  nasty  .  .  ." 

"  Couldn't  something  be  done,  Phanor?  " 

"Done?  The  boy  needs  a  good  talking  to,  that's 
what!  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  173 

"  What  good  would  that  do?  Don't  you  suppose  he 
knows  he's  doing  wrong,  with  all  his  up-bringing?  " 

"  Humph!  Goes  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other.  It's 
just  wasting  time  to  try  to  get  him  to  see  any  decency." 

"You  don't  think  that,  Phanor;  you  know  you 
don't." 

"  Oh,  don't  I?  I  suppose  you  think  the  boy  profits 
by  the  example  that's  given  him?  Is  that  it?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  I'm  sure!  " 

"  I  know,  easy  enough,"  Phanor  said.  "  I'll  put  the 
boy  in  charge  of  the  police;  I'll  get  a  probation  officer 
to  watch  him.  I'll  see  if  he  can  go  on  defying  me  this 
way!  " 

"  Phanor!  You  couldn't  do  such  a  thing!  " 

"  Couldn't  I,  though?  I'll  report  him  to  the  police 
before  I'm  another  day  older." 

"  You'll  bring  disgrace  on  the  boy." 

"He's  brought  disgrace  enough  on  us.  I'll  do  it. 
My  mind's  made  up." 

"  If  you  do  that,  Phanor,"  Isabel  said,  grimly,  "  I'll 
leave  you." 

Phanor  reared  up  on  his  elbows  in  bed  in  the  dark, 
and  stared  at  the  place  where  he  knew  Isabel  to  be. 

"  You  don't  mean  that,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  do.    Oh,  Phanor  .  .  ." 

Phanor  paused  for  some  moments  in  thought. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  what  you  propose,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  take  the  girl  in  hand.  We 
could  appeal  to  her  better  nature.  She  could  be  made 
to  give  him  up." 


174  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Rubbish!  "  said  Phanor. 

He  did  not  mean  this  exclamation  to  apply  to  the 
whole  conversation,  but  they  both  seemed  to  feel  that 
it  did  so. 

Phanor  did  not  appeal  to  the  police,  nor  did  Isabel 
appeal  to  the  better  nature  of  the  evil  influence,  for,  a 
few  days  after  this,  High  School  opened,  and  under 
this  new  interest  in  life,  it  seemed  that  the  whole  thing 
would  blow  over. 

Isabel  took  back  what  she  had  said  about  leaving 
Phanor.  It  was  merely  a  threat,  anyway,  and  she  never 
paused  to  consider  whether  or  not  she  would  have  been 
willing  to  execute  it. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AMOS  came  to  High  School  with  a  crowd  of  others 
who  were  equally  ignorant  of  how  to  act.  The 
blind  lead  the  blind,  gaily  and  without  hesitation,  and 
High  School,  in  consequence,  seemed  actually  sensible. 
It  was  governed  by  rules,  of  course,  but  the  rules  were 
formulated  on  a  basis  of  expediency,  rather  than  mor- 
ality; the  boys  and  girls  were  expected  to  be  good  be- 
cause only  so  could  they  do  their  work,  and  not  be- 
cause being  bad  was  a  potential  cause  of  ultimate 
damnation. 

This  was  very  gratifying  to  Amos.  He  attributed 
it  to  Belle,  or  rather,  he  attributed  to  her  his  own  ability 
to  appreciate  it,  for  he  had  begun  to  think  that  school, 
and  the  world  in  general,  would  all  along  have  been 
visible  as  quite  a  tolerable  place  to  one  who  had  had 
his  perceptions  quickened  by  a  little  experience.  Belle 
herself  decreased  in  importance;  she  had  shown  him 
that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  travel  his  own  road,  and 
he  had  set  out  upon  it;  he  passed  her  as  he  would  have 
passed  a  milestone,  and  loved  her  only  out  of  gratitude. 

He  went  forward  with  enthusiasm.  He  thought  it 
might  even  be  true  that  he  had  a  chance  of  avoiding 
failure  in  life,  though  this,  perhaps,  was  expecting  too 
much.  His  parents  were  no  longer  so  insistent  in  telling 
him  that  he  was  no  good;  but  this  might  be  because 

175 


176  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

they  were  letting  him  "  work  out  his  own  salvation  " — 
they  had  frequently  used  this  phrase — and  get  ahead  as 
best  he  could.  He  knew  well  enough  that  he  had  taken 
a  tremendous  risk  in  attempting  to  decide  life's  values 
for  himself.  He  had  asserted  his  right  to  steer  his  own 
ship;  this  was  all  very  well  if  he  could  make  the  voy- 
age in  safety,  but  if  he  finished  on  the  rocks,  he  would 
have  only  himself  to  thank,  and,  he  knew,  he  could  ex- 
pect no  mercy  from  the  Court  which  should  consider  his 
case. 

So  long  as  he  remained  in  this  conciliatory  and  in- 
determinate frame  of  mind,  he  worked  hard,  and 
brought  home  to  his  parents,  at  the  end  of  his  first 
month  in  school,  a  "  creditable  report."  It  was  the  first 
satisfactory  report  he  had  ever  presented,  and  Phanor 
and  Isabel  made  such  a  fuss  over  it,  and  were  so  end- 
less in  their  praise,  that  he  found  their  approbation 
harder  to  bear  than  their  censure  at  his  previous 
failures. 

"  I  guess  you  may  amount  to  something,  after  all," 
Phanor  said. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  lovely/'  said  Isabel,  "  not  to  have  to 
worry!  " 

Amos  resented  this;  he  did  not  like  to  admit  that  a 
school  report  was  so  certain  a  measure  of  success;  there 
was  an  element  of  surprise  in  his  parents'  attitude,  too, 
as  if  he  had  suddenly  shown  evidences  of  hitherto  un- 
known ability.  As  for  not  having  to  worry,  the  im- 
plied responsibility  of  being  a  reputable  student  was 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  177 

worse  than  the  risk  involved  in  making  his  own  evalua- 
tions. 

Accordingly,  during  the  second  month  he  slackened 
his  pace.  He  would  be  content  with  half  the  scholarship, 
if  it  could  be  attained  with  half  the  effort.  He  could 
find  a  better  use  for  his  time.  His  second  report 
showed  a  falling  off  in  every  subject,  and  in  Latin,  he 
had  gone  below  the  danger  point.  He  hated  to  bring 
this  report  home,  but  it  seemed  more  normal,  none  the 
less. 

"  Good  Lord,  boy!  "  cried  Phanor,  in  the  old  fa- 
miliar way.  "  I  should  think  you'd  take  some  pride  in 
your  work!  " 

"  I  had  a  good  report  last  time,  didn't  I?  That 
shows  I  can  do  it,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  What's  the  sense  in  saying  a  thing  like  that?  It's 
no  good  being  able  to  do  it,  is  it,  if  you  don't?  " 

"  I  don't  see  as  it's  so  awfully  important,  anyway," 
Amos  said.  "  So  long  as  I  don't  get  fired  out  of  school, 
I  don't  see  what  you  care." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not!  "  Phanor  said.  "  Sneak 
along,  getting  out  of  every  obligation  you  can!  Maybe 
you  think  you  haven't  got  any  duty  to  us;  is  that  it? 
Crickey,  I  should  think  you'd  like  to  show  a  little  grati- 
tude, once  in  a  while!  Maybe  you'll  realize,  some  day, 
how  important  your  work  is,  that's  all." 

"  Who's  ever  going  to  ask  me  what  marks  I  got  in 
school? "  « 

"  Oh,  go  on  about  your  business,  and  stop  being  a 
fool!  " 


178  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Isabel  put  the  matter  in  a  different  light.  Now  that 
Amos  had  escaped,  by  some  obscure  process,  inescapa- 
ble ruin,  it  did  seem  too  bad  that  something  else  must 
come  up. 

"  What  a  shame,"  she  said,  "  to  make  such  a  good 
beginning,  and  then  fail  again!  " 

"  Oh,  Gee,  mother!  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  about 
failing  all  the  time!  " 

"  Well,  that's  what  it  amounts  to,  isn't  it?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't.  I  didn't  fail  to  get  a  good  report;  I 
just  didn't  try." 

"  And  what  excuse  have  you  got  for  not  trying,  I 
should  like  to  know?  What  would  your  teachers  say  if 
you  told  them  you  didn't  try?  " 

"  Don't  you  suppose  they  can  see  I  didn't  try,  as 
well  as  you  can?  " 

"  That's  aside  from  the  question.  Your  whole  duty 
is  to  pay  attention  to  your  work,  and  you  know  it. 
You've  been  told  so,  times  enough." 

Well,  here  was  the  old  idea  of  the  "  double  life." 
It  didn't  offer  a  very  satisfactory  solution,  but  no  other 
course  seemed  open. 

On  three  afternoons  a  week,  the  entire  freshman 
class  came  back  to  school  for  gymnasium. 

"Enday,"  said  Mr.  Christensen,  the  Physical  Di- 
rector, one  day,  "  You've  got  something  that  looks  like 
a  head  on  your  shoulders.  I  wish  you'd  find  out  some 
way  for  me  to  run  this  class  without  calling  the  roll 
every  day.  It  takes  half  the  time." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  179 

"That's  easy,"  Amos  said.  "All  you've  got  to 
do  is  to  put  in  a  time  clock,  like  they  have  hi  facto- 
ries." 

"Yes;  and  have  all  you  fellows  punching  each 
other's  cards!  " 

"  Well,  we  can  answer  to  each  other's  names  in  roll 
call,  you  know,  if  it  comes  to  that.  You  can't  keep 
people  from  cheating,  you  know,  if  they  want  to  cheat." 

"  I  guess  that's  right,"  said  Mr.  Christensen.  "  What 
shall  I  do  then?  " 

"  I  should  say,"  Amos  answered,  struck  by  a  sud- 
den idea,  "  that  you  could  leave  the  roll  call  out  alto- 
gether. You  wouldn't  miss  anybody.  This  isn't  Latin, 
you  know." 

"  I  couldn't  do  that.  They'd  say  I  didn't  know  how 
to  run  my  classes." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Call  the  roll  once  a  month,  or 
something  like  that,  and  don't  tell  anybody  when  you're 
going  to  do  it.  If  you  mix  up  the  dates  a  little,  they'll 
never  find  out." 

"  That's  not  a  bad  idea,"  Mr.  Christensen  agreed. 

Amos  forthwith  worked  out  an  elaborate  formula  for 
the  days  on  which  the  roll  should  be  called;  Mr.  Chris- 
tensen accepted  it,  and  put  it  into  operation  at  once. 

The  plan  worked  well,  especially  for  Amos,  who  was 
thus  given,  nearly  every  week,  three  clear  afternoons 
with  Belle. 

Off  to  the  Westward  of  the  town  there  was  a  tract  of 
woodland,  sweeping  over  a  hill,  and  in  the  center  of  it, 


180  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

remote  from  all  roads  and  secure  from  detection,  Belle 
and  Amos  built  themselves  a  house. 

It  was  no  more  than  a  hut,  with  a  frame  of  poles, 
thatched  with  pine  branches  and  floored  with  balsam; 
it  was  fun  to  build  it  and  improve  it,  and  they  enjoyed 
the  ability  to  drop  mysterious  hints  of  their  "  secret 
meetings  " — almost  as  if  they  were  people  in  a  book- 
but  they  used  it  infrequently,  because  they  had  so 
little  use  for  it.  Amos  had  constructed  a  fireplace  of 
field  stone,  and  from  time  to  time  they  had  actually 
managed  to  spend  an  entire  afternoon  in  chilly  se- 
clusion, huddled  up  together  beside  the  fire,  telling 
each  other  fairy  tales  about  being  shipwrecked  sur- 
vivors, or  lovers  who  had  escaped  the  vigilance  of  the 
Court,  with  the  penalty  of  the  guillotine  imposed  on 
them  if  they  should  dare  to  meet.  This  was  pleasant 
for  a  time,  but  they  wanted  something  new. 

They  decided  to  break  into  the  haunted  house.  There 
was  a  vast  deserted  mansion  which  stood  near  the  rail- 
way yards,  on  a  street  which  had  once  been  respecta- 
ble, but  was  now  occupied  by  warehouses,  except  for 
this  one  forlorn  and  forgotten  residence.  A  tall  fence 
shut  it  off  front  and  rear,  and  at  the  sides  rose  the  bare 
blank  walls  of  the  warehouses;  dead  weeds  rattled  all 
winter  long  in  the  abandoned  garden,  and  the  sweeping 
carriage  drive  was  carpeted  by  the  fallen  leaves  of 
twenty  Autumns.  Years  before,  it  was  said,  a  terrible 
tragedy  had  occurred  in  the  front  room  on  the  second 
story,  a  tragedy  involving  suicide  and  murder;  the 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  181 

street  in  which  the  house  stood  was  always  deserted 
after  night-fall,  and  this  seemed  to  give  the  color  of 
truth  to  the  legend.  But  no  one  had  actually  seen  any- 
thing. 

The  plan  was,  to  break  through  at  one  of  the  rear 
windows  and  visit  the  haunted  house  at  midnight,  or 
as  late  as  possible.  This  would  offer  thrilling  risks,  no 
less  from  the  chance  of  detection  by  passers-by  or  by 
prowling  constables,  than  from  resentment  on  the  part 
of  the  restless  spirits  which  drifted  yaguely  near  the 
spot  which  had  been  their  last  home  on  earth. 

On  the  night  selected,  Amos  put  on  his  old  clothes, 
strapped  a  hunting  knife  about  his  waist,  said  he  was 
going  to  the  theater  with  Bert — this  time,  he  had  the 
foresight  to  mention  it  to  Bert — and  met  Belle  under 
the  beech  tree  at  the  corner  of  the  horse-car  yard. 
They  crossed  the  town  by  a  devious  route,  and  arrived 
before  the  great  pile  of  the  Darling  House  about  nine 
o'clock.  A  freight-engine  was  shuffling  about  in  the 
railway  yards  dose  at  hand;  the  house  was  very  still, 
and  very  dark. 

Amos  found  a  loose  picket  in  the  fence,  and  they 
squeezed  through,  and  went  up  across  the  garden.  At 
the  back  of  the  house,  a  kitchen  window  gazed  blankly 
out  at  them;  Amos  climbed  up  on  the  water-table  of 
the  foundations,  and  reaching  up  with  the  handle  of  his 
knife,  broke  the  center  pane  of  the  upper  sash.  The 
glass  fell  with  a  tinkle  on  the  sill  inside,  and  he  reached 
through  the  opening  and  turned  the  lock. 


1 82  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Neither  of  them  cared  to  go  on  with  the  adventure 
now — they  were  badly  frightened,  and  had  had  adven- 
ture enough — but  neither  wanted  to  turn  back. 

They  climbed  in  over  the  sill  and  stood  breathlessly 
listening  in  the  great  dark  kitchen.  The  broken  glass 
crunched  under  their  feet  as  they  moved  cautiously 
forward,  and  they  heard  the  rustle  of  littered  straw  on 
the  floor.  They  crossed  the  room,  moving  with  infinite 
caution,  and  pushed  open  the  swinging  door  of  a  black 
pantry,  where  they  paused  again  for  a  moment,  listen- 
ing to  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 

The  great  hall,  into  which  they  emerged,  was  dim  and 
lofty;  a  broad  staircase  reared  itself  up  from  the  floor 
and  was  lost  in  the  shadows  above;  a  faint  light  glim- 
mered through  the  fan-light  above  the  door.  They 
took  a  few  steps  forward  again,  though  they  knew  in 
their  hearts  that  they  should  never  have  the  courage  to 
mount  that  vast  creaking  stair  that  led  to  the  haunted 
room. 

Then,  all  at  once,  they  felt  the  presence  of  some  one. 

Before  them  on  the  floor  lay  a  long  bundle  of  in- 
definite darkness;  pale  blotches  of  white  indicated  the 
face  and  hands  of  a  man.  He  was  lying  stretched  out 
at  the  foot  of  the  paneling  which  formed  the  side  of 
the  stair. 

Their  hair  rose,  and  they  felt  cold  shivers  pass  over 
them. 

Amos  put  his  arm  around  Belle,  and  reached  out, 
with  his  other  hand,  to  feel  the  wall  behind  him.  His 
fingers  touched  the  knob  of  a  door,  which  rattled, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  183 

tremblingly,  and  the  figure  on  the  floor  stirred,  moaned, 
and  sat  up  quickly. 

"  Who's  'ere?  "    The  voice  was  shrill  and  nervous. 

They  could  not  speak  nor  move. 

The  figure  got  up  unsteadily,  staggered  forward  a 
few  steps,  and  fell  forward  to  its  knees,  putting  up  a 
hand  to  ward  off  the  reeling  floor.  A  strong  stench  of 
whiskey  filled  the  air. 

"  Who's  'ere?  "  It  was  almost  a  shriek,  now;  tense 
and  shaking;  an  inhuman  cry.  Yet  there  was  a  quality 
of  familiarity  about  it,  a  quality  terribly  concealed,  but 
recognizable. 

The  pale  light  from  over  the  door  shone  on  the 
swaying  figure,  the  bent  shoulders,  the  idly  swinging 
arms,  the  face  that  peered  eagerly  into  the  darkness. 
It  was  Burton. 

Amos  stepped  forward  and  caught  his  wrists,  breath- 
ing deep  in  astonishment  and  relief. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  whispered.  "It's  me.  It's 
Amos." 

Burton  clutched  him,  and  dragged  himself  to  his 
feet.  His  head  was  rolling  from  side  to  side,  and  he 
could  not  focus  his  eyes. 

"Why!  Whatchu  doin'  here?  " 

Amos  turned  for  a  second  to  Belle.  "  It's  Burton,'' 
he  said.  "  Remember?  He's  drunk." 

Belle  nodded. 

"  Quite,  quite  drunk,"  Burton  said. 

"  Well,  come  out  of  here,  you  damn  fool,  you," 
Amos  said.  "  We'll  take  you  home." 


1 84  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Don'  wanna  go  home  f  'r  anything." 

"  Yes,  you  do.    How  did  you  get  in?  " 

"  Secret  passge — passge,"  Burton  answered,  know- 
ingly. "  Show  you."  He  started  shambling  off  down 
the  hall,  dragging  Amos  with  him;  then  he  caught  sight 
of  Belle,  and  stopped  again.  "  Say,  lis'n,"  he  said. 
"  Who's  lady?  " 

"  It's  all  right,"  Amos  said.  "  She's  going  to  help 
take  you  home.  Let's  see  where  you  got  in." 

"All  ri';  all  ri',"  Burton  answered,  reassuringly. 
"  Mus'  careful,  an'  keep  very  still,  see?  "  And  he  be- 
gan to  sing. 

Amos  shut  him  up,  and  the  three  made  their  way  out 
into  the  rear  yard,  through  a  musty  laundry  that 
opened  off  the  kitchen.  Together  he  and  Belle  got 
Burton  poked  through  the  fence,  and  started  down  the 
street,  one  on  either  side  of  him,  supporting  him,  for 
his  feet  were  loose  and  powerless,  and  he  could  scarcely 
manage  to  walk.  Belle  laughed  immoderately,  till 
Amos  stopped  her,  at  everything  Burton  said.  At  the 
corner  a  policeman  eyed  them  suspiciously,  but  let 
them  pass. 

The  restraint,  and  the  walking,  sobered  Burton 
somewhat,  and  by  the  time  they  had  reached  his  house 
he  was  coherent,  sobbing  and  wailing  and  confessing 
his  shame. 

They  went  in,  when  Burton  had  found  his  keys,  and 
Amos  lighted  the  gas  in  the  hall.  A  broken  chair  lay  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  the  rugs  had  been  kicked  into 
comers,  the  pictures  on  the  walls  were  knocked  crooked, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  185 

and  the  window  shades,  broken  and  shredded,  hung 
awry.  In  the  study,  books  lay  about  everywhere,  some 
with  muddy  footprints  on  their  opened  pages,  the  walls 
were  stained  and  spattered,  and  a  whiskey  bottle,  be- 
side a  dirty  glass,  stood  on  the  desk. 

"  Now,  listen  here,"  Amos  said.  "  This  has  got  to 
stop.  You're  trying  to  go  to  the  devil — I  guess  you've 
got  a  good  start  already.  Well,  you  won't  go.  You'll 
turn  around  and  come  back.  If  you're  man  enough. 
You  hear  me?  Are  you  man  enough?  " 

Burton's  eyes  wandered  to  the  bottle  on  the  desk. 
"  I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  "  he  wailed.  "  You'll 
help  me?  " 

Amos  caught  up  the  bottle  and  handed  it  to  Belle. 

"  Here,"  he  said.  "  Go  out  and  pour  that  down  the 
sink  in  the  kitchen." 

A  moment  afterwards  he  heard  her  choking  in  the 
kitchen,  and  when  she  returned  to  the  study  her  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed. 
She  had  never  tasted  whiskey  before. 

"  See  here,  my  girl,"  Amos  said.  "  You  watch  what 
you're  doing." 

He  turned  again  to  Burton,  who  sat  hi  a  limp  heap, 
leaning  his  forehead  on  his  hand. 

"Help!  "  he  cried.  "You  talk  to  me  about  help! 
Have  you  asked  your  Heavenly  Father?  Have  you? 
Have  you  prayed  to  God  to  give  you  back  the  shield  of 
Faith  and  the  armor  of  Righteousness?  You  know 
what  things  are  wrought  by  prayer.  God  so  loved  the 
world  that  He  gave  His  only  begotten  son  .  .  ." 


1 86  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  didn't  believe  a  word  of  what  he  was  saying,  but 
the  atmosphere  of  the  study,  even  altered  as  it  was, 
put  words  into  his  mouth.  Then  he  saw  that  Burton 
was  thinking  only  of  keeping  his  grip,  and  he  set  out  on 
a  new  line. 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  he  said. 
"  I'll  come  back  to-morrow  morning,  early  .  .  .  have 
you  got  any  more  whiskey  in  the  house?  " 

Burton  buried  his  face  in  his  arms  and  sobbed. 
**  Oh,  I'm  a  miserable  sinner!  "  he  wailed. 

"You're  worse  than  that;  you're  a  fool.  Have  ycfu 
got  any  more  of  that  booze?  " 

Burton  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  then;  listen.  I'm  coming  back  here  to-mor- 
row morning.  If  this  house  isn't  all  cleaned  up,  and 
fixed  the  way  it  ought  to  be,  and  all  this  pig-pen 
chucked  out  of  here,  and  you  started  out  to  live  like  a 
man,  I  swear  I'll  tell  the  whole  story  to  everybody  in 
Wilton." 

"  Oh,  no!  No!  I  can't  bear  any  more!  I  can't  face 
the  disgrace  of  it!  " 

"  The  disgrace  has  happened  now.  You  heard  what 
I  said.  And  I'll  do  it.  Maybe  I'll  ask  my  father  to 
get  you  a  job  in  the  Mill,  or  something.  You've  got  to 
brace  up,  and  be  a  man.  You  know  what  you'd  do  for 
me,  if  I  was  where  you  are  now.  You've  always  told 
me,  if  a  man  had  anything  left  in  him  to  appeal  to,  you 
can  .  .  .  but  what's  the  sense  in  arguing  with  you? 
You  don't  know  what  I'm  saying.  I'll  go.  You  set  to 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  187 

work  on  this."  He  waved  his  hand  to  include  the 
room. 

Burton  raised  his  eyes,  whimpering.  His  face  was 
very  pale  and  drawn.  "  You're  not  going  to  leave  me 
alone?  "  he  pleaded. 

"  Sure  I  ami  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  sit  up  with 
you  all  night,  as  if  you  were  a  sick  baby?  You've  got 
to  be  a  man.  Nobody  ever  made  a  man  of  himself  by 
drinking  whiskey.  That's  the  end  of  that.  You  mind 
what  I  say." 

Burton  begged  and  cried  and  whined,  looking  from 
Amos  to  Belle  in  pitiful  appeal. 

"  No,"  Amos  said.  "  You've  got  to  do  it  alone.  I 
don't  care  if  it  does  take  you  all  night.  I'm  not  going 
to  pity  you."  He  caught  Belle  by  the  hand  and  drew 
her  towards  the  door.  "  Come  on,  Princess,"  he  said. 
"  Let's  get  out  of  here." 

As  they  parted  at  the  corner  of  Elm  Street,  half  an 
hour  later,  Amos  looked  seriously  into  her  face. 

"There!  "  he  said.    "You  see  what  happens!  " 

At  home,  the  gas  was  burning  brightly  in  the  parlor 
as  he  came  up  the  steps,  and  his  father,  scowling 
darkly  at  him  from  the  door,  was  waiting  for  him.  It 
was  nearly  midnight. 

"  Don't  scold  me,  Dad,  for  God's  sake!  "  he  cried, 
rushing  in.  And  then,  in  desperate  excitement,  shiv- 
ering at  the  thought  of  the  awful  significance  which  the 
story  had  for  him,  he  told  of  Burton's  collapse. 

He  lay  long  awake,  staring  at  the  ceiling.    "You 


1 88  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

see  what  happens,"  he  had  said  to  Belle.    Yes.    This 
was  the  result  of  deciding  for  yourself. 

Sometime  during  the  night  Burton  went  away,  leav- 
ing the  gas  burning  in  his  study,  and  the  door  swinging 
idly  open,  and  nobody  in  Wilton  ever  saw  him  again, 
or  knew  what  became  of  him. 

The  Spring  Term  dragged  along,  and  the  end  of  the 
school  year  came  in  sight.  Amos  haji  forced  himself 
towards  an  interest  in  his  work;  he  studied  more  than 
he  had  ever  done  before,  and  his  monthly  reports  im- 
proved. Phanor  and  Isabel  were  pleased — it  was  al- 
most worth  while,  they  thought,  to  ruin  Burton,  for 
the  sake  of  the  result  on  Amos — and  the  teachers  were 
triumphant. 

"  Crickey,"  Phanor  said.  "  Maybe  you'll  make  a 
name  for  yourself!  " 

But  Amos  knew  that  no  one  was  ever  famous  for 
High  School  reports. 

"  I  always  knew  you  could  do  it,"  his  teachers  told 
him. 

True,  it  had  not  been  difficult;  a  little  patience  and 
application.  But  none  of  Amos'  teachers  knew  how 
afraid  of  failing  he  was,  nor  how  the  story  of  Burton 
had  shown  him  his  danger. 

The  moral  of  the  story  was  this:  as  soon  as  one  took 
a  step  away  from  the  Old  Code,  away  from  safety  and 
self-satisfaction,  from  the  creed  of  letting  the  facts 
blow  over,  from  the  desperate  hope  for  "  the  Approba- 
tion of  One's  Fellows " — as  soon,  in  short,  as  one 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  189 

turned  away  from  the  parlor — one  was  doomed.  Bur- 
ton had  given  up  his  training  and  his  traditions,  and 
had  tried  to  face  the  world  alone,  as  one  man,  rather 
than  a  member  of  a  group;  he  had  tried  to  fight  life 
single-handed,  instead  of  riding  off  on  the  back  of  the 
victory  which  his  Clan  had  won,  through  generations; 
he  had  made  his  own  valuations  and  put  his  trust  in 
himself — and  this  was  what  happened.  Life  had  been 
too  much  for  him,  and  he  had  gone  down.  He  was 
trampled  into  the  mud  of  oblivion,  and  the  world  went 
marching  on  without  him.  That  was  Failure. 

Amos  had  done  these  same  things.  Was  it  too  late, 
now,  to  change?  Had  he  seen  his  fate  in  time  to  avoid 
it?  Was  there  still  a  way  out  for  him?  Well,  he  would 
bury  himself  in  his  school-work,  and  try. 

But  the  pity  of  giving  up!  He  could  hardly  endure 
the  thought  of  turning  his  back  on  the  romance  and 
adventure  which  he  had  seen  in  life,  the  loveliness  and 
the  beauty  of  the  world.  Safety,  really,  meant  noth- 
ing, and  security  was  valueless;  to  win  or  lose  was  all 
one.  He  had  but  to  ask  himself  the  question,  now  that 
he  saw  the  way  to  safety:  what  was  his  safety  for? 
He  would  be  safe  from  Failure — yes — but  to  what  pur- 
pose? No;  happiness  lay  in  life,  and  life  in  happiness. 
It  was  this  that  it  was  a  pity  to  give  up. 

He  had  once  boasted  that  he  could  conquer  life,  even 
if  it  was  hard — had  he  not  been  too  filled  with  youthful 
enthusiasm? 

He  had  sworn,  by  all  that  he  held  sacred,  that  he 
would  never  become  the  sort  of  man  his  father  was — 


190  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

well,  but  suppose  he  actually  was  that  sort  of  man? 
Suppose  he  should  take  his  chance,  and  live  by  his  own 
faith — only  to  find  that  he  was  not  man  enough  to 
carry  through?  The  alternative  was  Failure,  remem- 
ber; he  knew,  now,  what  Failure  was. 

Should  he  take  his  chance? 

This  was  the  question  which  stood  fixed  and  uncom- 
promising in  his  mind,  day  and  night,  for  long  and 
weary  months,  while  he  was  busy  making  peace  offer- 
ings, in  the  form  of  good  reports  from  school,  to  the 
Idol  of  the  Approbation  of  One's  Fellows. 

About  this  time  it  happened  that  there  was  a  family 
gathering  at  the  Websters',  and  the  entire  Webster  and 
Enday  clan  assembled  for  mutual  stock-taking  and 
fault  finding. 

Amos  saw  the  fussy  complaining  Okf  his  Aunt  Emily; 
he  heard  the  bitter  croaking  of  the  esteemed  Edna 
Enday;  he  heard  Grandma  Webster  beaming  on  misery 
and  calling  it  virtue;  he  watched  the  mumbling  and 
pottering  of  old  Grandpa  Webster,  who  talked  about 
printing  and  wondered  what  the  world  was  coming  to. 

It  was  evident  that  the  whole  momentum  of  the 
Enday  ancestry  was  driving  life  along  the  straight  and 
narrow  path  that  avoided  both  the  hills  and  the  valleys. 
They  were  moving  forward  stubbornly  and  relent- 
lessly— it  was  almost  like  a  charge.  And  Amos  him- 
self was  in  the  line  of  march.  They  were  putting  the 
torch  in  his  hands  and  urging  him  on. 

"  Fm  certainly  in  a  devil  of  a  fix!  "  he  thought. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  191 

"  Now,  Phanor,"  Isabel  said,  one  evening  when 
Amos  had  gone  out.  "  I  want  to  have  a  serious  talk.5' 

"  What's  the  matter  now?  "  asked  Phanor,  putting 
his  paper  down  across  his  knees. 

"  It's  about  Amos." 

"  I  thought  so.    What's  he  been  up  to?  " 

"  It  isn't  that.  I  think  he's  really  taken  a  brace, 
just  as  we  hoped  he  would,  some  day.  I  think  he  bids 
fair  to  amount  to  something.  His  reports  are  better 
and  better,  all  the  time.  Miss  Weeks  told  me,  only 
yesterday,  that  there  wasn't  a  better  or  brighter  boy  in 
any  of  her  classes." 

"  What  are  you  driving  at?  " 

"  Well,  you  know  the  terrible  trouble  he  got  himself 
into  last  summer.  And  if  you  want  to  know  my  opin- 
ion, I  think  it  was  our  fault." 

"Our  fault!  "  Phanor  shouted  in  amazement. 

"  Yes." 

"  But  Good  Lord,  whajt's  got  into  you?  Are  you 
crazy?  How  can  you  turn  around  and  say  a  thing  like 
that?" 

"  I'm  not  crazy  at  all.  If  you'd  listen  a  minute,  in- 
stead of  flying  off  on  a  tantrum,  I'll  tell  you." 

"  Well,  go  ahead.  I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  stop 
beating  about  the  bush." 

"  The  reason  Amos  got  into  trouble  with  that  Brooke 
girl  was  because  he  didn't  have  anything  to  do.  He 
was  idle  all  summer.  Satan  finds  work  .  .  ." 

"  What  a  ridiculous  thing  to  say,  Isabel !  Didn't  we 
do  everything  we  could  to  help  him,  I  should  like  to 


192  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

know?    I'd  like  to  hear  what  else  you  think  we  could 
have  done!  " 

"  We  could  have  kept  him  busy." 

"  Doing  what,  for  Heaven's  sake?  He  didn't  have 
any  school." 

"  I  know.  That's  just  it.  I'll  tell  you:  I  think  he 
ought  to  have  a  job  in  the  Mill  this  summer." 

"  A  job  in  the  Mill!  "  Phanor  cried. 

"  Yes." 

"  Doing  what?  What  the  devil  do  you  suppose  there 
is  for  him  to  do  at  the  Mill?  I  suppose  you  think  he 
can  take  my  place.  Is  that  it?  " 

"  No,  you  stupid,  I  don't  think  anything  of  the  kind. 
But  there  are  lots  of  boys  working  in  the  Mill — in  the 
shops,  and  around." 

"  Running  machines?  You  want  the  boy  to  ruin 
his  lungs,  I  can  see  that!  " 

"  No,  now  listen.    Phanor  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  put  him  in  the  dyeing-room,  I  suppose,  and 
have  him  breathing  steam  all  day.  No,  thanks !  " 

"  Well,  he  could  work  in  the  shipping  room,  or 
something." 

"And  associate  with  that  dirty  gang  of  Micks? 
Lord,  woman,  haven't  you  got  any  sense?  " 

"  You  worked  in  the  shipping  room  when  you  started 
in,  you  know  you  did.  It  didn't  hurt  you  any,  did  it?  " 

"  Well,  I  was  older  than  he  is,  and  besides,  the 
boys  in  the  shipping  room  aren't  what  they  used  to  be 
in  my  day." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  193 

"  Pshaw,  I  guess  you've  forgotten  the  stories  you 
used  to  tell.  How  about  Sam  What's-his-name?  " 

"  Oh,  he  was  an  exception,  I  guess,"  Phanor  said. 

"  Well,  probably  there  are  exceptions  now.  But  I 
think  it  won't  do  Amos  a  bit  of  harm,  and  it  would 
avoid  the  experience  we  had  with  him  last  summer.  I 
think  he's  learned  his  lesson.  And  it  will  be  nice  for 
him  to  earn  a  little  money  of  his  own,  too." 

"  Humph!  He  won't  get  rich  on  what  the  Mill  will 
pay  him,  that's  sure." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  it  would  be  a  little  something, 
wouldn't  it?  I  think  he'd  enjoy  it.  And  I  certainly 
don't  want  to  go  through  another  summer  like  the 
last." 

"  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  let  him  find 
out  how  people  earn  money,"  Phanor  said,  grimly. 

He  was  thinking  back,  in  his  memory,  to  the  time 
when  he  had  been  learning  the  business  from  the  bot- 
tom. He  had  had  a  hard  time,  in  those  days.  But  see 
what  it  had  done  for  him!  Of  course,  just  having  a 
hard  time  wasn't  the  only  thing  that  had  caused  his 
success — he  had  applied  himself.  Lord,  how  time  did 
fly! 

:t  Then  will  you  see  about  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It  wouldn't  do  any  harm  to  look 
into  it,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  school  will  be  over  in  three  weeks,  you 
know." 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  once  for  all,"  Phanor 


194  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

complained.  I'm  not  going  to  rush  into  this  thing  with- 
out taking  time  to  think  about  it  a  little.  There  are  a 
good  many  points  to  be  considered." 

After  worrying  about  it  for  a  few  days — though  he 
did  not  take  the*  trouble  to  consider  the  various 
"  points  "  involved — Phanor  spoke  to  the  shipping  man, 
who  said  he  thought  he  might  be  able  to  make  room  for 
Amos.  As  soon  as  he  heard  this,  Phanor  was  sorry,  and 
apprehensive.  A  boy  ought  to  know  so  much  about 
life,  in  order  to  be  safe.  And  Amos  was  no  more  than  a 
baby.  Why,  when  he  had  worked  in  the  shipping  room 
he  knew  almost,  if  not  quite,  three  times  what  Amos 
knew! 

Amos  received  the  news  with  mingled,  or  rather 
with  alternating,  emotions.  He  was  glad  of  the  chance 
to  see  what  the  Mill  was  like,  and  he  was  eager  to  spend 
a  season  in  the  enemy's  country,  looking  over  the 
ground,  to  see  if  he  could  manage  to  make  a  tolerable 
existence  of  it.  Yet,  in  certain  moods,  he  thought  that 
to  go  into  the  Mill  was  a  concession  of  principles. 
Once  in,  he  was  lost.  Once  he  had  taken  a  job  in  the 
Mill,  his  dream  of  being  somebody  was  forever  van- 
ished. 

A  few  days  before  the  announcement  that  he  was  to 
be  flung  in,  like  experimental  powder  in  a  test-tube  of 
acid,  he  had  an  experience  that  changed  the  color  of 
his  thoughts,  and  sent  him  to  the  shipping  room,  when 
he  finally  went,  as  a  man  goes  to  be  beheaded. 

He  was  waiting  after  school  for  Bert.    The  bright 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  195 

sunlight  was  beating  down  on  the  sidewalk,  reflected 
up  on  the  cool  stone  vault  of  the  entrance  vestibule; 
he  stood  back,  gazing  at  a  curved  gargoyle  that  leered 
down  from  a  corbel  above  his  head,  thinking,  despair- 
ingly, that  it  would  perhaps  be  better  to  give  up,  and 
play  safe,  when  he  heard  a  step  in  the  corridor,  and  saw 
a  girl  come  out  of  one  of  the  class-rooms  and  make  for 
the  door. 

She  saw  him  standing  there,  and  looked  up.  He  was 
sure  he  had  never  seen  her  before,  and  yet  she  was 
familiar  to  him.  It  was  if  they  had  met  somewhere, 
long  ago,  and  remembered  dimly  .  .  .  She  went  down 
the  steps,  and  he  watched  the  sunlight  shining  on  her 
white  dress. 

She  wasn't  much.  She  certainly  was  not  pretty.  He 
could  not  imagine  loving  such  a  girl.  Yet  she  had 
golden  hair  and  frank  eyes,  and  she  had  noticed  him. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  nice  look  about  her;  she  seemed 
to  have  stepped  out  of  some  serene  and  virtuous  place. 
All  at  once,  a  thousand  thoughts  rushed  in  upon  him. 
This  girl,  even  by  what  she  lacked,  suggested  possibili- 
ties of  all  the  things  which  other  people,  somewhere, 
did  not  lack.  In  books,  or  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world,  somewhere,  there  were  people  who  thought  what 
he  thought,  who  had  the  same  dreams  and  hopes  and 
delights.  Somewhere,  his  own  people  were  waiting  for 
him  to  find  them.  Somewhere  .  .  .  and  he  was  being 
asked  to  go  into  the  Mill,  and  forget  that  these  radiant 
beings  ever  existed! 

It  was  impossible  to  do  that.     He  couldn't.     He 


196  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

would  go  into  the  Mill,  because  it  would  create  a  great 
fuss  if  he  should  try  to  withdraw,  but  never,  as  long 
as  he  had  a  pound  of  strength  for  a  struggle,  or  could 
draw  a  breath  for  a  shout  of  defiance,  would  he  give 
up,  and  play  safe.  He  would  take  his  chance. 

It  was  worth  it.  He  could  stand  the  thought  of 
Failure,  now — the  penalty  was  terrible,  but  the  re- 
wards were  great — and  he  would  take  his  chance.  His 
own  people,  waiting  somewhere,  expected  it. 

It  took  so  great  a  faith  to  believe  that  his  own  peo- 
ple really  existed!  There  in  Wilton,  with  the  Mill  and 
the  parlor  .  .  .  and  he  had  never,  in  all  his  life,  seen  a 
single  person  who  proved  that  life  was  beautiful  .  .  . 

Then  Bert  came,  and  they  went  to  play  base-ball  in 
Philip  Roger's  yard. 

The  shipping  room  did  not  produce  exactly  the  re- 
sult that  Phanor  and  Isabel  had  expected. 

They  had  thought  that  it  would  keep  Amos  com- 
pletely occupied,  every  minute  of  the  day.  If  a  boy 
were  not  safe  from  idleness,  there  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  Mill,  then  there  would  be  no  safety  anywhere. 
Whenever  the  superintendent  of  the  shipping  room 
came  in,  the  men  and  boys  were  hard  at  work  nailing 
covers  on  the  boxes,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him  that 
this  was  not  the  normal  and  constant  state  of  affairs. 
As  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  they  loafed,  smoking 
and  telling  stories,  and  keeping  only  one  eye  on  the 
door.  The  superintendent  of  the  shipping  room  never 
knew  this,  and,  in  consequence,  Phanor  never  knew  it. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  197 

They  had  thought  too,  that  the  shipping  room  would 
show  Amos  what  life  was  like.  Phanor  thought  that 
life  was  a  matter  of  sticking  to  your  job,  minding  your 
p's  and  q's,  and  earning  the  praise  of  your  boss,  and  he 
hoped  that  Amos  was  learning  this.  Amos  thought  that 
life  was  an  opportunity  to  achieve  something — the 
precise  nature  of  your  achievement  depending  on  what 
you  found  within  yourself  worthy  of  expression — and 
the  boss  and  the  job  merely  a  means  to  an  end,  to  be 
carefully  watched  lest  they  conflict  with  the  main  pur- 
pose. And  the  shipping  room  convinced  him  that  this 
was  a  defensible  interpretation. 

They  had  thought,  lastly,  that  he  would  learn  to  ap- 
preciate the  value  of  money,  now  that  he  was  seeing 
how  it  was  earned.  They  themselves  rated  money  very 
high  in  the  scheme  of  things — always  taking  care  that 
it  should  not  become  a  master,  which  meant  that  they 
must  not  love  money  to  such  an  extent  that  the  pur- 
suit of  it  should  impair  their  earning  power.  They 
had  preserved  Amos'  first  pay-envelope,  much  as  they 
would  have  preserved  a  decoration  from  some  mighty 
Emperor,  if  they  had  had  one.  True  enough,  Amos 
enjoyed  having  some  money,  but  he  spent  a  great  deal 
of  time  wondering  when,  if  ever,  he  should  have  enough 
to  enable  him  to  retire.  Manifestly,  it  was  absurd  to 
think  that  any  one  would  ever  pay  him  for  doing  some- 
thing that  he  liked  to  do. 

Still,  this  was  thinking  rather  far  ahead.  He  had 
before  him  all  the  rest  of  High  School,  and  the  whole 
of  college.  The  real  test  had  not  yet  come.  And  it 


198  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

could  not  come  until  it  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  too  late 
to  do  anything  about  it. 

This  test  he  imagined  somewhat  as  follows:  a  Tri- 
bunal of  Successful  Men  would  be  seated  on  a  dais,  in 
their  robes  of  office — pongee  coats,  he  supposed,  the 
elbows  frayed  from  much  leaning  over  ledgers,  and 
pens  behind  their  ears — these  men  would  examine  him, 
spreading  out  his  mind,  much  as  one  spreads  mortar 
out  on  the  top  of  a  wall,  to  determine  his  attainments 
and  attributes;  everything  he  had  ever  thought  or  done 
would  be  revealed — his  dearest  visions  would  be  re- 
jected, probably,  as  unsuitable,  and  picked  daintily 
out  of  the  mortar.  The  Chairman  of  the  Tribunal 
would  have  a  file  of  his  school  reports,  ready  at  hand. 
If  he  passed  the  tests — which  at  times  seemed  possible, 
and  at  other  times  not  so  possible — the  Chairman  would 
jerk  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  and  cry  "Mill!  " 
Then  the  superintendent  of  the  shipping  room,  or 
Phanor,  would  lead  him  away  and  put  him  on  a  high 
stool,  where  he  would  settle  down,  and  begin  life. 
The  Tribunal  would  shout  "  Next!  "  and  Isabel,  who 
had  been  weeping  softly  in  the  back  of  the  room,  would 
be  relieved  and  delighted,  and  would  kiss  him  when  he 
got  home  at  night. 

He  might  refuse  to  go  before  the  Tribunal.  This 
would  kick  up  a  greater  rumpus  than  anything  he  had 
ever  done.  Nevertheless,  he  might  refuse  to  be  tested. 

The  thought  of  his  own  sort  of  people  kept  coming 
before  his  mind,  tormenting  him.  They  would  all  pass 
the  windows  of  the  tribunal  chamber  together,  and  look 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  199 

in,  and  see  the  candidates  being  spread  out  and  ex- 
amined and  hustled  off  to  their  respective  careers,  and 
they  would  smile  and  say  "  Poor  Devils!  " — or,  possi- 
bly, something  more  adequate — and  glance  at  one 
another  in  an  understanding  way,  and  go  on  to  do 
something  interesting. 

Or,  he  might  be  a  failure.  Then  his  own  people 
would  say,  "  No,  you  cannot  come  with  us."  He 
would  drift  about,  an  uneasy  ghost;  he  would  flatten 
his  nose  against  the  windows  of  the  parlor,  on  rainy 
nights,  and  look  in  at  the  happy  home  that  might  have 
been  his  if  he  had  paid  attention  and  realized  the  im- 
portance of  his  work. 

Besides  Amos,  there  were  five  men  and  boys  in  the 
shipping  room:  two  of  these  were  older,  and  married; 
they  always  needed  shaves,  and  they  smoked  black 
pipes  and  talked  about  rich  men,  and  told  each  other 
of  the  fishing  trips  they  had  taken  twenty  years  before. 
The  other  three  were  gay  young  blades  who  cracked 
jokes  and  swore;  on  Saturday  nights  they  dressed  up 
and  loafed  about  the  store  doors  on  Center  Street, 
looking  at  the  girls  and  singing  in  harmony. 

Amos  was  punctual  in  leaving  home  for  the  Mill, 
after  breakfast;  at  lunch  time,  he  pretended  to  be  wor- 
ried about  his  work;  at  night  he  sat  around  the  house 
with  an  air  of  importance  that  made  his  father  choke. 
From  time  to  time  he  went  to  the  library,  to  read  the 
magazines  or  talk  with  his  friend  the  inventor,  and  three 
or  four  times  he  arranged  to  see  Belle. 

Belle  was  no  longer  able  to  offer  any  inspiration: 


200  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

some  day,  he  supposed,  they  would  run  away  together, 
and  live  in  Paris.  In  some  distant  and  exotic  place,  life 
with  Belle  would  be  wonderful. 

He  worked  along  from  day  to  day,  seeing  that  he 
would  be  fairly  content  if  only  he  could  forget  that  he 
did  not  belong  where  he  was.  But  he  could  not  forget. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  winter  which  followed  was  a  continuation  of 
the  unhappiness  and  dissatisfaction  of  the  sum- 
mer. Amos  had  tried  the  Mill,  and  the  prospect  of 
spending  the  rest  of  his  precious  days  there  filled  him 
with  horror.  As  for  the  rest  of  life — that  part  which 
he  always  now  thought  of  as  "  the  other  side  " — he 
had  nothing  but  hope.  He  went  on,  because  he  saw  no 
good  way  to  stop,  being  carried  by  the  momentum  of 
past  experience. 

His  work  in  school  went  fairly  well,  but  that  is  the 
most  that  could  be  said  of  it.  He  was  trying,  again, 
to  effect  a  compromise.  A  great  opportunity  might 
come — though  he  could  not  guess  whence  it  would 
come,  or  what  would  be  the  nature  of  it — and,  if  he 
did  not  keep  himself  open  and  ready  for  it,  he  might 
find  himself  unable  to  grasp  it,  or,  even,  to  see  it  at  all. 

If  there  had  been  any  one  to  say  to  him,  kindly  and 
quietly,  so  as  not  to  frighten  him :  "  See  here,  young 
man;  you've  come  to  an  age  where  you  must  make  up 
your  mind  what  course  to  follow.  Either  you  must 
be  content  with  the  plan  your  father  and  mother  have 
laid  down  for  you,  or  you  must  break  definitely  away, 
and  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  them,  and  travel 
alone."  If  then  the  archangel — for  it  could  not  be  any 
one  of  less  estate  than  this — could  have  gone  on  to 

201 


202  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

explain  the  difficulties  and  rewards  of  each  course,  he 
might  have  been  able  to  avoid  the  hateful  necessity  of 
compromise.  But  there  was  no  one  to  say  this  to  him, 
archangel  or  otherwise.  Burton  had  been  a  failure, 
and  a  rather  tragic  one;  Belle  saw  nothing  beyond  her 
own  bodily  existence;  his  parents  thought  that  there 
was  only  one  side  to  the  question. 

Phanor  and  Isabel  saw  that  he  was  unhappy  and 
listless,  but  they  could  not  guess  the  reason  for  it,  nor 
think  what  to  do  about  it,  until  Isabel  had  an  idea,  and 
made  a  suggestion. 

"  What  are  your  plans  for  next  summer,  Phanor?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Plans?  Plans?    What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Why,  just  what  I  say." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  plans,  special.  Why 
do  you  make  that  assumption?  " 

"  Well,  we  have  a  little  money  laid  by,  you  know." 

Phanor  rattled  his  paper.  He  saw  his  recent  raise  in 
salary  taken  away  from  him,  and  spent  on  foolishness. 

"  And  you  want  to  find  some  way  to  chuck  it  away— 
is  that  it?  " 

"  You  know  I  don't  want  any  such  thing,  Phanor." 

"  Well,  you  talk  like  it." 

"  No.  I've  been  thinking.  It  seems  to  me  Amos'  last 
summer,  in  the  shipping  room,  wasn't  exactly  success- 
ful." 

"  Humph!    It  wasn't  my  idea,  in  the  first  place." 

"  It  don't  matter  whose  idea  it  was.  The  question 
is,  do  you  want  to  repeat  it?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  203 

"  Crickey,  Isabel,  I  never  saw  anybody  like  you  for 
stirring  up  trouble!  What  are  you  getting  at?  " 

"  We  haven't  had  a  real  vacation  since  we  were  mar- 
ried, that's  all.  And  I  think  it  would  be  nice  if  we 
should  take  Amos  and  go  away  somewhere.  It  would 
do  you  good,  and  it  would  be  just  the  thing  for  Amos." 

Phanor  sat  stunned  for  a  moment. 

"  Where  do  you  think  the  money's  coming  from?  " 
he  asked. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  we  can  afford  it." 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  the  kind!  What's  the 
sense  of  saying  a  thing  like  that?  You  seem  to  think 
I'm  a  millionaire.  A  summer  vacation!  " 

"  It  wouldn't  cost  much,  really,  when  you  come  to 
figure  it  out.  We'd  have  a  hotel  bill  to  pay,  and  it 
wouldn't  come  to  much  more,  in  the  end,  than  we  spend 
at  home." 

"  Rubbish !  Trying  to  tell  me  it's  just  as  cheap  to 
go  to  some  swell  summer  resort  as  it  is  to  stay  at  home. 
What  are  you  talking  about?  " 

This  point  being  reached,  they  talked  about  it  for 
three-quarters  of  an  hour,  moving  in  circles,  like  ani- 
mals tethered  in  a  field,  who  wind  themselves  tightly  up 
to  the  center. 

A  few  weeks  later,  however,  the  subject  came  up 
again. 

"  I  met  Mrs.  Thingum-jig  this  afternoon,"  Isabel 
said.  "  You  know,  Phanor  .  .  .  Mrs.  Who's-this  ..." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  Mrs.  Popperdingle?  "  Phanor  said, 
laughing.  "  No,  who  did  you  see?  " 


204  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  It  beats  everything  how  I  can't  think  of  the  wo- 
man's .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Collins." 

"  You  did,  hey?    What's  she  up  to?  " 

"  She  was  telling  me  about  the  place  they  went  for 
their  summer  vacations  to." 

"  Lord,  are  you  still  harping  on  that?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  it  would  be  lovely.  You  know  how 
you'd  enjoy  it." 

"Humph!  There's  lots  of  things  I'd  enjoy.  When 
it  comes  to  paying  the  bills,  though,  I  don't  enjoy  it  so 
much." 

"  I  hate  to  have  everybody  going  off  but  us." 

Phanor  scowled  as  this  weak  point  was  touched. 

"  Where  is  this  place  she  was  talking  about?  "  he 
asked. 

"  It's  called  Lakeside  Lodge,  and  it's  in  the  White 
Mountains." 

"  In  the  White  Mountains!  "  Phanor  cried. 
"Crickey,  woman,  do  you  know  what  it'll  cost?  " 

"  The  Collinses  paid  eight  dollars  a  week,  and  she 
thinks  they'd  make  it  less  for  Amos." 

"  Can't  be  much  of  a  place,  at  that  figure." 

"  That's  what  she  told  me  she  paid.  Why  wouldn't 
it  be  a  good  idea  to  write  and  find  out?  " 

"  Now,  don't  be  in  such  a  stew  over  it.  Why  go 
ahead  and  commit  yourself?  The  place  might  be  full 
of  rotten  dirty  Micks,  for  all  you  know." 

"  Mrs.  Collins  said  there  were  nice  people  there. 
And  you  wouldn't  be  committing  yourself  just  to  write 
and  ask  for  the  rates,  you  goose." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  205 

"Yes,  but  you  can't  tell  how  the  old  duffer  will 
take  it." 

"  What  old  duffer?  " 

"  Oh,  the  hotel  man.  I've  seen  that  sort  of  thing 
happen  before." 

In  the  end,  it  was  decided  to  spend  two  weeks  at 
Lakeside  Lodge,  in  the  White  Mountains. 

Isabel  told  Amos  that  if  he  did  well  in  school,  per- 
haps they'd  take  him  off  on  a  vacation  somewhere. 

"  Gee,  I'd  like  that!  "  Amos  cried.  "  I've  never 
really  been  away  from  home  in  my  whole  life!  " 

For  three  months  in  succession  he  brought  home 
good  reports,  and  then  discovered  that  the  vacation 
was  all  arranged,  no  matter  what  happened.  In  con- 
sequence, the  next  three  months  were  not  so  good. 

Lakeside  Lodge,  and  Cottages,  stood  far  back  in  the 
woods,  a  mile  from  the  railway  station,  and  half  a 
mile  from  the  lake.  It  was  a  large  brown  bandbox  of 
a  house,  with  a  mansard  roof  on  which  the  pointed 
slates  were  arranged  in  patterns,  and  it  was  conspicu- 
ous for  its  porch  with  Egyptian  columns — now  badly 
split  by  the  weather — and  the  crop  of  lightning-rods 
which  sprang  its  chimneys  and  gables.  A  button  manu- 
facturer had  built  it,  to  provide  himself  "  a  stunning 
place  in  the  country,  near  a  lake,"  and  then,  in  the 
course  of  years,v,his  wealth  increasing,  so  that  he  was 
above  his  house,  or  decreasing,  so  that  his  house  was 
above  him,  he  had  abandoned  it  to  the  Misses  Cad- 
wallader,  who  had  seen  an  opportunity,  and  had  opened 


206 

a  summer  hotel.  It  showed  above  the  tree  tops  for 
miles  around,  and  seemed  to  have  been  dropped  there 
by  a  cyclone,  so  little  did  it  fit  its  position. 

Near  it  stood  the  "  Cottages,"  a  pitiful  shanty,  done 
up  in  Art  Stains,  and  falling  to  pieces  because  of  dry 
rot  in  the  joists. 

Thither  came  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Phanor  Enday,  and  their 
son,  Amos,  arriving  in  a  canopy-top  buckboard,  drawn 
by  a  wheezing  white  horse. 

The  inmates  of  the  lodge  were  as  follows:  There 
was  a  business  man  and  his  wife,  who  had  been  coming 
for  years,  and  were  the  star  boarders;  two  bachelors, 
fond  of  fishing — one  of  these  men  owned  a  sawmill 
somewhere,  and  the  other  traveled  about  the  country 
in  a  buggy,  selling  Family  Atlases  and  whiskey;  a 
sharp-faced  widow  named  Smalls,  who  was  wearing 
herself  ever  thinner  in  the  attempt  to  keep  her  small 
son  in  order;  a  pallid  young  man  who  walked  in  the 
woods,  even  when  it  was  raining,  and  "  did  "  water- 
colors;  three  meager  and  empty-headed  young  women 
— the  two  stout  ones  were  engaged  in  the  task  of  in- 
structing the  Youth,  and  the  thin  one  lived  in  the  hope 
of  something  on  an  allowance  from  her  father;  a 
farmer  named  Winterbourne,  with  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter; and  a  young  medical  student,  who  had  just  finished 
his  internship,  and  was  going  to  be  resident  physician 
at  a  boy's  school.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Collins  did  not  come. 

Besides  these,  there  were  some  others,  who  were  paid 
to  be  there:  the  Misses  Cadwallader,  who  ran  the 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  207 

hotel;  and,  as  an  avocation,  made  burnt-wood  souvenirs 
of  Mahocket  Lake;  Harry,  the  stable-man;  and  two 
frowsy  girls,  local  "  Help,"  who  made  the  beds  and 
waited  on  table,  and  shuffled  about  all  day  long  in 
shoes  with  the  heels  worn  down. 

Phanor  and  Isabel  were  very  much  pleased.  Phano'r 
was  greatly  relieved  to  arrive;  he  had  had  a  hard  day, 
shutting  up  the  house  at  home,  which  now  seemed  so 
far  away,  and  worrying  about  the  trunk  and  the  jour- 
ney, which  had  involved  two  harrowing  changes  of 
trains;  he  leaned  out  of  the  buckboard,  as  they  came 
up  the  sandy  road,  and  expressed  deep  gratitude  that 
Lakeside  Lodge  actually  existed.  He  had  begun  to  be 
afraid  that  he  had  been  led  into  a  hoax. 

Isabel  saw  at  once  that  the  air  was  good,  and  she 
found  no  reason  to  complain  about  the  beds  and  the 
arrangements  in  the  rooms.  She  was  a  little  frightened 
by  the  loneliness  that  settled  down  over  the  place  when 
it  began  to  get  dark;  when  she  came  downstairs 
she  found  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  Social  Room,  and  two 
of  the  young  ladies  playing  Halma  before  it,  and  she 
set  about  getting  acquainted  at  once. 

After  supper,  Amos  went  down  the  road  on  an  expe- 
dition of  exploration.  The  woods  on  either  hand  were 
different  from  the  woods  near  Wilton;  they  were 
darker,  and  had  a  primeval  air  about  them,  as  if  they 
had  not  been  traversed  since  the  Indians  left;  they 
were,  in  short,  "trackless  forests."  He  felt  rather 
timid,  alone  in  the  darkness,  and  kept  in  the  middle  of 


208  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

the  road,  walking  softly,  so  as  not  to  arouse  the  wild 
beasts,  which,  for  all  he  knew  to  the  contrary,  were 
sitting  impatiently  behind  every  stump. 

The  road  led  him  down  to  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and 
he  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  out  over  the  still  black 
water,  watching  the  fading  light  in  the  sky  and  the  re- 
flections of  the  tree  tops  and  the  stars  in  the  wavering 
ripples  at  his  feet.  A  flock  of  crows  across  the  lake 
were  squabbling  about  the  best  place  to  spend  the 
night;  their  noise  accentuated  the  general  quiet;  he 
had  never  known  that  the  world  could  be  so  still.  He 
-fell  to  thinking  of  Belle,  and  wondering  what  she  was 
doing. 

Probably,  if  she  had  been  able  to  share  with  him  all 
his  apprehensions  about  life,  so  that  she  had  been  able 
to  be  a  sort  of  spiritual  mistress  to  him,  his  loneliness 
would  have  been  greater  than  he  could  bear.  But  she 
was  not,  and  he  was  only  comfortably  lonely. 

Even  if  he  couldn't  have  borne  it,  what  could  he 
have  done?  He  couldn't  turn  about  and  run  off  home 
to  her,  now  that  his  parents  had  been  to  all  the  trouble 
of  getting  a  room  for  him.  An  old  thought  came  back 
to  him:  how  did  the  wonderful  people  in  books,  who 
eloped  with  those  they  loved,  manage  about  the  rooms 
and  the  baggage  and  the  hotel  bills? 

Well,  he  was  there  now,  and  he  would  have  to  stay, 
whether  he  could  bear  it  or  not. 

When  he  reached  the  house  again,  he  was  surprised 
to  find  his  father  and  mother  in  conversation  with  Mr. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  209 

and  Mrs.  Winterbourne.  Isabel  called  him  over  to  the 
fireside  and  introduced  him. 

"  This  is  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Winterbourne,"  she  said,  and 
then,  turning  to  them,  with  a  touch  of  pride,  he  thought, 
she  added,  "  This  is  my  son." 

Amos  shook  hands  and  said  that  he  was  happy  to 
meet  them.  Mr.  Winterbourne  was  a  pleasant  man, 
with  a  kindly  smile,  and  his  wife  was  the  very  picture 
of  friendliness  and  hospitality. 

Mr.  Winterbourne  said,  "  I  suppose  you're  going  to 
like  it  first  rate  here,  young  man?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  I  think  so,"  Amos  said. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  lake  yet?  "  Mrs.  Winterbourne 
asked. 

"  I've  just  been  down  to  look  at  it." 

"  It's  lovely,  isn't  it?  I  always  say  there  isn't  a 
prettier  sheet  of  water  in  the  world  than  Mahocket 
Lake." 

As  Amos  went  off  upstairs  to  bed,  he  was  thinking 
that  he  liked  the  Winterbournes.  Though  he  did  not 
see  what  they  were  going  to  be  able  to  do  to  help  him, 
the  thought  that  they  were  in  the  world  somehow  re- 
assured him,  and  made  more  tolerable  the  lonely 
minutes  before  he  went  to  sleep. 

In  the  morning,  he  was  ready  for  breakfast  before 
his  father  and  mother  had  come  down,  and,  not  daring 
to  go  into  the  dining-room  without  them,  he  stepped 
out  onto  the  porch,  and  stood  admiring  the  fresh  aspect 


210  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

of  the  landscape.  Over  the  woods  was  visible  the 
rounded  crest  of  a  symmetrical  hill,  which  he  had  not 
noticed  before,  and  he  was  gazing  at  it  and  wondering 
if  it  would  be  possible  to  climb  to  the  top  of  it  and  look 
down  on  the  other  side,  when  he  heard  a  step  behind 
him  and  turned  to  see  Mrs.  Winterbourne  and  her 
daughter. 

The  girl  was  the*  girl  he  had  seen  in  the  corridor  at 
High  School. 

"This  is  my  daughter  Constance,"  Mrs.  Winter- 
bourne  said.  "  Constance,  this  is  Mr.  Enday." 

As  Amos  took  her  hand  he  looked  up  at  her,  to  see  if 
she  would  show  him  some  recognition  of  their  former 
meeting,  but  she  dropped  her  eyes  timidly,  as  if  she 
had  been  caught  in  possession  of  a  secret. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  I'd  like  to  climb  that  hill  over 
there,"  he  said.  "  Wouldn't  you  like  to  come  too?  " 

Constance  smiled  brightly,  and  looked  up  at  her 
mother. 

"Oh!  Could  I,  Mother?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Winterbourne  laughed,  and  said  that  she  had 
no  objection.  Then  she  took  Constance  away  with  her 
to  breakfast,  whither  Amos  followed,  sitting  over  at  his 
own  table  across  the  room. 

Whenever  he  found  opportunity,  he  looked  at  Con- 
stance. She  had  some  strange  quality  about  her,  which 
he  could  not  name.  As  before,  she  gave  him  the  im- 
pression of  having  come  from  some  friendly  and  satis- 
fying place.  She  gave  him  a  feeling  of  contentment. 

And  he  had  asked  her  to  go  to  the  top  of  the  hill  with 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  211 

him!     "You'd  better  look  out,"  he  told  himself,  "or 
you'll  be  getting  into  something." 

Then  Phanor  and  Isabel  came  in,  and  he  set  about 
the  congenial  and  familiar  task  of  concealing  his 
thoughts  from  them. 

"  You've  never  been  here  before,  have  you?  "  Con- 
stance asked,  as  soon  as  they  were  started  on  their 
walk. 

"  Never  have,"  he  admitted.  "  I've  been  too  busy  to 
go  to  places,  much." 

Constance  looked  sympathetic. 

"  And  don't  yo^i  just  love  it?  " 

"  Yes.    The  lake  is  fine." 

"  My  goodness,  have  you  been  down  to  the  lake  al- 
ready? Isn't  it  just  the  loveliest  thing  you  ever  saw?  " 

"  It  made  me  feel  sad." 

"  It  did?    I  don't  see  how  it  could." 

"  Well,"  Amos  admitted  mysteriously,  "  I  guess  that 
was  something  inside  of  me,  and  not  the  lake's  fault." 

Constance  looked  sympathetic  again. 

"  I  was  down  there  last  night,  after  dark,"  he  added. 

"In  the  dark!  My,  I'd  be  scared!  " 

Amos  smiled  indulgently.  "  Of  what?  "  he  asked. 
"  You  don't  think  there's  wild  animals  there,  do  you?  " 

"  Oh,  not  really.  But  I  get  scared  at  night.  I'm  an 
awful  'fraid-cat.  Once  I  got  scared  just  coming  over 
from  the  cottage.  I  just  sat  down  on  the  grass  and 
screamed  for  father.  He  had  to  come  out  and  get  me. 
We  just  roared." 


212  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  I  know.  You  get  like  that,  sometimes,  in  the  dark. 
You  can't  keep  any  control  of  yourself;  you  know 
there's  nothing  to  hurt  you,  but  you're  scared,  and  you 
can't  help  it." 

Constance  seemed  somewhat  surprised  that  Amos 
should  be  brave  enough  to  confess  his  own  cowardice. 

"  That's  just  what  it  was  with  me,"  she  said. 

"  Once  I  went  into  a  haunted  house  and  found  a  dead 
man  on  the  floor,"  Amos  said. 

"  Oh,  my  gracious!    Weren't  you  just  scared  stiff?  " 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know  he  was  going  to  be  there,  that's 
true." 

"  I'd  have  just  died." 

Amos  thought  it  wise  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Say,  what  were  you  doing  down  there  at  Wilton 
High  School  that  day?  "  he  asked. 

"  At  Wilton  High?  "  said  Constance,  wonderingly. 
"  Oh,  I  went  there  to  take  exams  once." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  you." 

"  You  saw  me?    Did  you  go  to  Wilton  High?  " 

"  Why,  yes;  I  thought  you  remembered.  I  was 
standing  in  the  door,  waiting  for  somebody,  and  you 
came  out  and  went  down  the  steps." 

"It  must  have  been  when  I  was  taking  exams," 
Constance  said  serenely. 

Amos  was  thinking  how  strange  it  was  that  some  peo- 
ple would  tell  lies,  just  for  the  sake  of  telling  them;  it 
was  a  very  different  thing  from  simply  making  up  a 
good  story,  for  the  story's  sake. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  did  you  take  the  exams?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  213 

"  Yes,  and  I  flunked  them,  every  single  one.  I  was 
trying  to  get  in.  Father  wanted  me  to  take  them  again, 
but  I  wouldn't." 

"  But  why  did  you  have  to  take  exams  at  all?  I 
never  did." 

"  Oh,  you  went  to  school  hi  Wilton,  and  that's  dif- 
ferent. You  see,  I  don't  live  in  Wilton." 

"  Oh.    Where  do  you  live?  " 

"  In  Shrewsbury." 

"  I  know  where  it  is.    Do  you  go  to  the  Institute?  " 

"  Yes.  I'm  just  starting  my  third  year,  and  I  was 
dying  to  go  to  Wilton." 

"  But  why?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  You  see,  father's  a  farmer,  and 
we  just  live  in  the  country,  and  I  never  go  anywhere." 

"  Well,  you  can  take  my  word  for  it  that  you  can't 
see  the  wide  world  from  Wilton,"  Amos  laughed. 

"  Well,  but  ...  I  don't  know." 

The  road  led  them  into  a  hollow  and  across  a  strip 
of  swampy  land,  thick  with  trees.  Walking  hi  the 
wheel-ruts,  through  the  high  grass  and  weeds,  they 
emerged  at  last  into  an  open  field  which  rose  from-  under 
theit  feet  in  one  unbroken  sweep  to  the  crest  of  the 
hill.  The  wind  was  rippling  the  grass,  rushing  up  the 
slope,  like  notes  of  music. 

"  Come  on!  "  Amos  cried.    "  Let's  run!  " 

He  set  out,  shouting,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder 
from  time  to  time,  expecting  to  see  Constance  drop 
back.  But  she  kept  close  behind  him,  working  hard, 
but  with  obvious  enjoyment.  At  the  top  he  stopped, 


2i4  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

and  she,  arriving  beside  him,  sank  down  on  the  grass, 
spreading  out  her  hands  to  support  herself,  looking  up 
at  him  through  her  windblown  hair  with  bright  eyes 
and  flushed  cheeks. 

He  thought  it  strange  that  he  should  suddenly  find 
her  pretty. 

Across  the  valley  and  hills  lay,  rolling  like  waves  of 
the  sea,  green  pastures  and  dark  woods  and  squares  of 
brown  plowed  land;  on  the  farthest  horizon  the  big 
range  reared  up,  faint  and  blue,  into  the  sky.  A 
white  farm-house  shone  out  at  intervals,  and  a  silver 
river  meandered  lazily  down  the  valley,  seeking  its 
outlet  to  the  distant  ocean.  What  faith  a  river  had, 
Amos  thought,  to  go  on  hunting  and  hunting,  when  its 
sea  was  nowhere  in  sight! 

"This  is  great!  "  he  said.  "It's  like  the  hills  in 
England!  " 

"Oh!"  gasped  Constance,  thrilled.  "Have  you 
been  in  England?  " 

"  Well,  I  never  have.  But  I  know  it  as  well  as  if  I'd 
been  born  there.  I  had  it  all  fixed  up  to  go,  one  time, 
and  the  plans  fell  through  at  the  last  moment." 

"  My  goodness!  I'd  be  afraid  to  go  to  England." 

"  Afraid  of  what?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  so  far  away,  and  you  have 
to  cross  the  ocean,  and  everything.  I'd  be  afraid  I 
wouldn't  ever  get  back." 

"  Well,  what  would  be  the  harm  if  you  didn't?  Gee, 
I'd  love  to  go  off  somewhere,  and  live!  Wouldn't 
you?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  215 

"  I  never  thought." 

"  Maybe  you  will,  some  day." 

"  Me!  Oh,  I  should  say  not!  " 

"  But  why  shouldn't  you,  if  you  want  to?  " 

"  Oh,  I  never  could  go  to  England." 

At  this,  they  fell  silent. 

After  a  time,  they  heard  the  sound  of  the  first 
luncheon  bell,  and  as  they  rose  to  return,  Amos  found 
himself  bitterly  resentful  that  they  must  go  down  on 
the  same  side  of  the  hill  they  had  come  up.  It  was 
always  like  that. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  Let's  come  up  here  often. 
We'll  make  this  a  place  of  our  own.  Would  you  like 
to  do  that?  " 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  want  a  place  of  your  own 
for,"  Constance  said.  "  What  could  you  do  with  it?  " 

That  wasn't  what  he  had  said,  or  meant.  What  did 
she  have  to  go  and  pretend  for?  As  if  she  couldn't 
see!  She  needn't  begin  to  give  herself  airs. 

But  before  they  had  reached  the  Lodge  this  feeling 
had  drifted  from  him,  and  they  were  talking  happily 
again. 

It  was  the  first  of  a  series  of  walks  of  exploration, 
extending  over  all  the  country  side.  It  was  always 
Amos  who  proposed  them,  and  Constance  always 
readily  accepted.  She  was  always  willing  and  eager  to 
go — and,  after  they  had  gone,  she  seemed  not  to  care 
whether  they  had  gone  or  not. 

He  began  to  like  her.  He  tried,  often,  to  reach  her 
real  self,  to  see  what  she  was,  actually.  But  she  met 


216  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

him  with  a  protecting  wall:  her  pretense  of  not  under- 
standing. What  was  she  afraid  of?  Why  must  she 
hold  herself  so  remote? 

Phanor  and  Isabel  remarked  the  growing  intimacy, 
and  seemed  delighted.  Mr.  Winterbourne,  too,  seemed 
interested,  and  often  jokingly  asked  Amos  what  ro- 
mances he  had  been  telling  the  girl.  And,  almost  at  the 
end  of  the  vacation,  Isabel  said  suddenly,  after  a  long 
period  of  silence: 

"  Constance  Winterbourne's  a  real  nice  girl,  don't 
you  think  so?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Amos. 

Then  four  days  went  by  without  a  letter  from  Belle. 

Letters  came  at  noon.  Amos  had  always  been  able 
to  find  the  delivered  mail  before  his  mother  did,  and 
sneak  Belle's  letter  out  of  the  pile  on  the  mantel  in  the 
Social  Hall;  as  the  days  went  by,  now,  with  no  letter 
for  him,  he  began  to  fear  that  his  mother  had  managed 
to  get  ahead  of  him,  and  had  stepped  in  to  prevent  the 
progress  of  events.  But  her  questions  about  Con- 
stance removed  his  suspicions;  she  would  never  have 
asked  if  he  didn't  think  Constance  a  nice  girl,  if  she 
had  been  worrying  about  Belle. 

Then,  the  day  before  they  left,  the  letter  came: 

DARLINGEST  DEAR: 

I  have  been  sick,  and  they  won't  let  me  out  of  bed.  I 
am  writing  this  under  the  bedclothes,  and  the  nurse  thinks 
I'm  asleep.  I  don't  know  if  I  can  get  out  by  the  time  you 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  217 

come,  dear,  but  I'll  try  to  if  I  can.   Waddy  found  out  about 
756,  so  meet  me  at  the  House  in  the  Woods.     Good-by, 
dear,  and  don't  forget  I  love  you,  dear. 
Love  and  kisses  and  everything, 

B.  B. 

»• 

This  was  the  letter  that  Isabel  found  in  Amos'  bag 
when  she  went  into  his  room  to  pack  his  things  for 
departure.  She  snatched  it  up  and  read  it,  replaced  it, 
and  ran  trembling  to  Phanor  with  the  terrible  news. 

"  Oh,  Phanor!  It's  still  going  on!  I  just  found  a 
letter  from  that  girl,  in  Amos'  bag.  What  shall  we 
do?" 

"  What  girl?  "  Phanor  asked. 

"  Why,  that  Brooke  creature." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  said  Phanor,  with  deep  concern. 
"  Lord,  hasn't  the  boy  any  decent  instincts?  " 

"  I  did  so  hope  everything  was  all  right,  at  last.  It 
may  have  been  going  on  all  the  time;  think  of  all  the 
times  he's  been  out,  and  we  never  knew  where!  Oh, 
and  there's  Constance!  " 

"  Damn  the  boy!  I  wonder  why  he  don't  behave! 
Where  is  he?  " 

"  He's  out  somewhere  with  Constance.  I  did  hope 
he  was  interested  in  her.  I  thought  he'd  forgotten  all 
about  this  other." 

"  I'll  have  it  out  with  him!  "  Phanor  snarled,  sav- 
agely. "  I'll  see  if  he  can  go  on  defying  me  this 
way!  " 

"  That's  not  a  bit  of  use,  Phanor.  We  tried  that 
before." 


218  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  You  stand  there 
and  talk,  but  you  haven't  got  anything  to  suggest. 
That's  ridiculous,  Isabel." 

"  Ought  I  to  burn  the  letter,  do  you  think?  " 

"  What  did  it  say?  " 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't  repeat  it!  "  , 

"  Of  all  the  low,  dirty,  vile  ..." 

"  Oh,  but  she  must  have  some  good  in  her!  Don't 
you  suppose  we  could  .  .  .  the  boy's  just  infatuated." 

"Young  scoundrel!  " 

"  Phanor,  don't  you  think  we  could  induce  her  to 
give  him  up?  " 

"  What  an  idiotic  idea,  Isabel!  What's  the  sense  in 
saying  a  thing  like  that?  " 

"  Well,  there's  no  other  way  out  of  it,  that  I  can  see. 
I  can't  believe  he's  a  bad  boy;  it's  just  because  he's 
got  into  the  clutches  of  this  girl.  Don't  you  suppose 
she  knows  she's  dragging  him  down  to  ruin?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  what  she  knows?  " 

"  Well,  she's  got  to  be  told.  She  ought  to  have  a 
good  talking-to,  that's  what  I  think." 

"  Who's  going  to  tell  her  that,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

"  I  thought  you  would." 

"  Me!  "  Phanor  cried. 

"  Yes,"  said  Isabel,  determinedly. 

"  But,  Good  Lord,  I  never  set  eyes  on  the  girl!  " 

"  What  if  you  didn't?  Oh,  how  can  you  hesitate 
when  the  boy's  whole  life  is  at  stake!  It  must  stop!  It 
must!  He  don't  realize  what  the  consequences  might 
be." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  219 

"  By  God,  I'd  like  to  thrash  him!  " 

"  It  would  be  a  lot  more  use  if  you  went  and  saw 
the  girl.  I  wish  you  would,  Phanor.  Please,  as  soon 
as  we  get  home.  Just  tell  her  that  she's  dragging  the 
boy  down.  She  must  see  that  the  whole  thing's  im- 
possible." 

"  Seems  to  me  that's  a  woman's  place,  not  mine." 

"  No.  What  could  I  say?  You're  a  man  of  the 
world;  she'd  have  to  listen  to  you." 

"  There  might  be  something  in  that,"  Phanor  as- 
sented. 

"  Of  course  there  is.    Do,  Phanor!    Please!  " 

"  I  don't  see  what  I  could  say  to  her,  though." 

"  Just  tell  her  that  she's  dragging  the  boy  down,  and 
appeal  to  her  better  nature." 

Phanor  didn't  actually  see  himself  talking  with 
Belle;  if  he  had  done  so,  he  would  never  have  con- 
sented to  it,  even  to  have  his  life,  or  Amos'.  But  it 
seemed  a  long  distance  ahead;  he  thought  of  himself 
only  as  a  man  of  the  world,  with  ability  to  handle  the 
situation.  A  few  grand  phrases  came  into  his  mind 
.  .  .  the  evil  influences  and  the  threat  of  ruin  faded 
away  before  them. 

"  Well,  I  might  see  what  could  be  done,"  he  said. 

Isabel  went  on  with  her  packing.  Phanor  sat  and 
thought.  With  all  he  had  to  put  up  with  .  .  .  and 
now  this! 

When  Amos  returned  from  his  walk  with  Constance, 
he  saw  that  his  bag  had  been  packed,  and  suspected 
that  his  bundle  of  letters  had  been  found.  But  Isabel 


220  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

made  no  reference  to  it;  she  knew  that  there  would  be 
no  more  evil,  as  soon  as  Phanor  had  had  time  to  appeal 
to  Belle;  moreover,  she  didn't  want  an  interview  with 
Amos. 

The  morning  of  the  departure  arrived.  Isabel  was 
seated  in  the  buckboard;  Phanor  was  standing  near, 
watching  Harry  load  the  trunk  on  the  rack  at  the  rear; 
the  Misses  Cadwallader  were  on  the  porch,  to  say  good- 
by  and  utter  a  hope  for  future  patronage;  the  majority 
of  the  guests  made  a  smiling  group  of  spectators.  Amos, 
right  before  them  all—"  Damned  young  hypocrit!  " 
muttered  Phanor — was  talking  to  Constance. 

"You  get  off  at  Shrewsbury,"  Constance  was  saying, 
"  and  go  right  straight  up  the  main  road.  Our  house  is 
the  seventh  on  the  left  hand  side,  if  you  don't  count 
the  blacksmith's  shop.  You  can  tell  it  by  the  big  trees 
in  front,  and  the  stone  well." 

"  I  hope  I  can  come  often,"  Amos  answered. 

He  took  her  hand  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  the 
rounds  of  them  all,  smilingly  saying  good-by,  while 
Phanor,  sitting  in  the  buckboard,  watched  him  darkly. 
Lord,  what  he  had  to  go  through  with  for  that  boy! 

Amos  scrambled  in  beside  Harry,  and  they  moved  off. 

"  Good-by,  all,"  Isabel  called. 

She  dug  Phanor  in  the  ribs,  and  he  raised  his  hat. 

Mrs.  Winterbourne,  standing  with  her  arm  through 
her  husband's,  smiled  benignly. 

Then  they  turned  the  corner.  Phanor  began  to 
worry  about  the  trains  and  the  trunk  and  the  terrible 
errand  he  had  set  for  him  at  the  end  of  the  journey; 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  221 

Isabel  looked  about  her,  and  said  good-by  to  the  hills 
and  the  wild  flowers  beside  the  road;  Amos  was  won- 
dering if  he  would  really  care  to  see  Constance  when 
he  had  once  more  returned  to  a  world  where  Belle  was. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON  his  arrival  at  home,  Phanor  set  about  opening 
the  house.  This  consisted  in.  unlocking  all  the 
doors  and  windows  and  making  sure  that  they  were  not 
stuck;  turning  on  the  gas  and  water;  poking  a  stick 
into  the  drains,  to  see  that  all  was  clear;  getting  out 
the  silver,  which  had  been  lying  hidden  in  the  bottom 
of  a  barrel  of  remnants  of  wall-paper  in  the  attic; 
airing  out  the  cellar;  and  notifying  the  police  that  there 
was  no  longer  any  need  of  special  surveillance  at  97 
Elm  Street. 

He  always  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  on  these  things, 
but  on  this  occasion  he  dragged  them  out  to  fill  the 
greater  part  of  the  afternoon,  because,  as  soon  as  he 
had  finished,  he  was  to  call  on  Belle  Brooke,  and  ap- 
peal to  her  better  nature. 

He  dreaded  it.  Now  that  he  was  back  in  Wilton,  it 
seemed  terribly  real.  He  saw  himself  confronting  her, 
tongue-tied  and  miserable;  he  had  never  before  ap- 
pealed to  any  one's  better  nature,  and  he  did  not  know 
bow  to  do  it.  He  even  tried  to  put  it  off  till  "  some 
day  next  week,"  but  Isabel  would  not  hear  of  this,  of 
course,  and  packed  him  off. 

She  went  to  the  parlor  to  wave  to  him,  but  he  had 
no  heart  to  look  back,  and  plodded  along,  gloomy  and 

222 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  223 

silent,  hoping  that  he  was  not  as  conspicuous  as  he 
felt,  and  trying  to  think  of  something  to  say. 

When  he  came  within  sight  of  the  Brookes'  house, 
he  stopped,  and  prayed  that  the  earth  might  swallow 
him  until  after  supper.  He  walked  up  and  down  sev- 
eral times,  telling  himself  that  he  was  not  sure  of  the 
number;  that  it  was  rather  late  for  his  errand;  that 
Belle  might  not  be  at  home.  In  his  heart,  he  knew 
that  he  was  afraid. 

Amos  had  helped  about  the  house  as  long  as  there 
was  need  of  him,  but  he  managed  to  slip  away  in  time 
to  reach  the  library  before  four  o'clock. 

He  crossed  the  town,  and  set  out  into  the  country. 
It  was  very  hot  and  still,  and  the  sun  was  low,  filling 
the  woods  with  red  light  and  casting  his  shadow  on 
the  road  before  him. 

Belle  was  no  longer  the  only  girl  in  the  world;  there 
was  Constance.  But  the  two  did  not  conflict.  Belle 
had  love  and  romance  and  beauty;  she  offered  an  in- 
terpretation of  life,  warped  and  one-sided  as  it  was. 
Constance  had  nothing — nothing  actual,  that  is — she 
was  a  mortal  maiden,  simply,  who  had  been  put  in 
Amos'  path  as  a  substitute  for  evil,  and  she  had  the 
charm  of  availability.  He  did  not  love  her,  and  he 
did  not  want  to  win  her;  she  had  nothing  to  win.  She 
was  merely  another  girl. 

Why  had  his  father  looked  so  blackly  at  him  while 
they  had  been  saying  good-by,  there  at  Lakeside 
Lodge?  Was  it  because  he  had  heard  them  planning 


224  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

to  meet  again?  Did  he  mistrust  her?  Couldn't  he  see 
that  Constance  was  a  case  of  criminal  negligence — that 
she  was  guilty  of  tedious  innocence,  and  as  safe  as  a 
lump  of  clay?  Why,  Constance  would  grow  up  into 
just  such  another  woman  as  Isabel;  was  his  father 
unwilling  that  he  should  have  even  that? 

By  this  time  he  had  turned  off  the  road,  and  had 
reached  the  house  in  the  woods.  It  was  a  ruin  now; 
the  roof  had  collapsed,  and  the  needles  had  withered 
and  fallen  from  the  thatch  that  formed  its  walls.  He 
sat  down  on  a  log,  staring  at  the  hut.  Happiness  had 
fled  from  it;  it  was  no  more  than  a  brush-pile,  and  a 
desolate  one  at  that;  the  fireplace,  where  they  had  so 
often  watched  the  flames,  was  a  heap  of  stones.  He 
sighed,  and  gave  himself  over  to  melancholy. 

He  waited  for  half  an  hour.  Belle  didn't  come.  He 
went  down  to  the  road  again,  looking  eagerly  about  him, 
hoping  to  catch  sight  of  her  at  the  end  of  each  vista  as 
it  opened  up  before  him. 

She  had  been  used  to  hiding  from  him,  sometimes, 
and  making  him  find  her.  He  stopped,  feeling  that 
perhaps  she  was  watching  him,  and  said  something  that 
might  make  her  laugh  and  thus  betray  herself.  But 
his  voice  sounded  echoless  and  dismal  in  the  quiet 
woods,  and  he  was  silent  again. 

He  made  sudden  rushes  at  the  thickets,  parting  the 
leaves  with  his  hands,  thinking  to  see  her,  each  time, 
crouching  in  the  bushes,  laughing  roguishly  at  him, 
springing  up  to  come  running  to  him,  holding  out  her 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  225 

arms.    But  he  soon  gave  up  this  play,  because  he  found 
nothing. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  road  and  looked  down  the 
hill  towards  town,  but  the  eager  little  figure  was  not 
in  sight.  He  waited,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  farthest 
visible  point,  but  no  one  came. 

He  returned  to  the  hut  and  sat  down  again  on  the 
log,  looking  at  the  spot  where  she  had  been  sitting 
when  they  had  last  visited  the  House  in  the  Woods 
together.  Her  corner  by  the  fire  was  empty  now,  as 
his  heart  was.  The  birds  were  singing,  as  they  had 
been  singing  on  that  first  evening,  when  he  had  gone 
out  into  the  yard  to  hide  his  diploma — how  long  ago 
it  seemed!  The  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  hills, 
filling  the  world  with  the  sadness  and  beauty  of  the 
twilight. 

What  could  have  happened?  Had  she  not  gotten 
his  letter?  Had  she  been  unable  to  escape  from  those 
who  watched  her?  Was  she  too  weak — his  heart 
seemed  to  stop,  and  the  woods  became  dim  before  his 
eyes — was  she  dead? 

The  thought  brought  him  to  his  feet,  and  sent  him 
hurrying  down  the  road  towards  town.  He  knew  that 
he  was  being  foolish — yet,  how  splendid  and  sad  a 
thought!  She  had  died;  she  had  gone  out  of  the 
world,  and  he,  who  loved  her,  had  been  left  behind,  in 
a  vague  world  of  twilight  which  should  nevermore  be 
lifted  from  his  spirit.  She  had  crossed  to  the  other 
shore,  and  he  would  wait  for  his  call  to  go  and  join 


226  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

her  there.    The  poets  and  Sunday  School  helped  him, 
and  he  was  finely  miserable. 

When  he  came  to  the  corner  of  Arbor  Avenue,  how- 
ever, though  he  was  already  late  for  supper,  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  go  and  stand  for  a  moment 
near  her  house.  There  would  be  lights  in  the  windows, 
perhaps;  he  would  see  all  the  familiar  things  with 
which  he  associated  her — the  garden  with  the  poplar 
trees,  the  shrubs  beside  the  grass-plot,  the  red  barn— 
perhaps  he  would  even  catch  a  glimpse  of  her.  Then 
he  would  know  that  she  was  safe,  and  he  would  go 
away  alone,  but  comforted,  into  the  night. 

He  stopped  beside  the  fence  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  and  stood  looking  at  the  house. 

It  was  the  same  spot  where  Phanor  had  paused  in 
embarrassment,  an  hour  before. 

Phanor  had  finally  shaken  off  his  cowardice,  and 
made  a  rush;  he  was  on  the  steps  almost  before  he  real- 
ized what  he  had  done.  It  would  soon  be  over,  any- 
way. 

Had  he  rung  the  bell?  Lord,  yes!  It  was  too  late  to 
run,  now!  He  saw  nothing  before  him  nor  about  him; 
he  simply  stood  staring  at  the  glimmer  of  light  that 
came  through  the  stained  glass  of  the  door,  hoping 
desperately  that  no  one  would  answer  his  ring. 

Then  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  his  mind  went 
blank. 

"I'd     like  .      .  is     there  .     .  does     Miss     Belle 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  227 

Brooke  live  here?  "  he  stammered  out,  to  the  maid 
who  stood  silently  watching  him. 

"  Miss  Belle  died  very  suddenly  last  night,  sir," 
said  the  maid. 

"  Oh!  "  said  Phanor.  "  No  matter!  It's  of  no  con- 
sequence! " 

He  turned  and  scuttled  down  the  steps. 

"Hell  and  damnation!  "  he  muttered.  "The  girl's 
made  a  fool  of  me!" 

Amos  lingered  for  a  time,  and  then,  being  unable 
to  endure  the  inactivity,  came  nearer,  and  realized  the 
situation,  almost  at  once.  Without  knowing  how  he 
had  gotten  there,  he  found  himself  at  the  kitchen  door, 
looking  in  at  Annie,  who  was  quietly  at  work. 

She  looked  up  and  saw  him. 

"God  save  us,  here's  Mr.  Amos!  "  she  said.  She 
stood  there,  holding  a  pan  in  her  hand. 

"  It's  true,  so  it  is,  and  Glory  be  to  God,"  she  went 
on,  answering  the  question  she  saw  in  his  eyes.  "  The 
poor  thing  died  last  night;  close  onto  midnight  it  was, 
and  the  lot  of  us  sitting  up  praying  for  her  soul,  and 
not  sleeping  a  wink  since  then,  either,  God  knows  it. 
Only  the  day  before  yesterday  I  was  talking  to  her,  and 
we  thought  she  was  getting  better.  She  wrote  you  a 
letter,  and  I  took  it  out  myself  and  posted  it.  She 
made  me  promise  I'd  never  tell  it,  and  I  never  did,  to 
a  living  soul,  and  them  was  the  last  words  I  ever  heard 
her  speak." 


228  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Amos  came  faltering  into  the  kitchen,  and  put  out 
his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  Oh,  Annie!  "  he  said. 

"  It's  an  awful  thing,"  she  said.  "  Would  you  like  to 
see  her,  Mr.  Amos?  " 

He  tried  to  say  "  No,"  but  could  not. 

Annie  led  the  way  through  the  house.  In  the  par- 
lor, under  the  dim  light  of  the  gas,  which  was  turned 
low,  the  casket  lay  on  trestles;  the  dark  wood  shone, 
and  the  straps  and  handles  gleamed  and  glittered;  there 
were  flowers  about.  The  upper  part  of  the  lid  had  been 
taken  off,  and  stood  on  end  beside  the  casket. 

Annie  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  moved  slowly 
forward;  Amos  reluctantly  followed,  keeping  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  edge  of  the  coffin,  into  which  he  could  not 
yet  see.  He  moved  unsteadily  along  at  Annie's  side, 
clutching  her  arm,  watching  the  edge  of  the  coffin. 

Then  they  came  near  enough  to  enable  him  to  see 
into  the  hollow,  and  he  saw  Belle's  face.  At  once  he 
became  conscious  of  himself;  he  felt  himself  standing 
there  in  the  parlor;  he  felt  all  the  rest  of  the  world; 
he  seemed  to  know  what  every  one  was  doing;  he  un- 
derstood Annie,  there  at  his  side;  everything  suddenly 
became  real. 

"  No,"  he  said. 

He  moved  backward  towards  the  door,  keeping  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  casket.  He  could  see  nothing  but  a 
few  sharp  glints  of  light  on  the  bright  metal  work- 
nothing  else  in  the  dark  room. 

The  door  clicked  behind  him,  and  the  world  slowly 
faded  away  again,  leaving  him  bewildered.  He  nodded 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  229 

his  head  quickly  to  Annie,  freed  his  hand  from  hers, 
opened  the  door,  and  ran  down  the  steps. 

He  turned  towards  home,  but  it  was  long  before  he 
reached  it.  As  he  walked,  he  kept  repeating,  "  It's 
over,  it's  over,  it's  over,"  monotonously  and  mechani- 
cally, in  time  to  his  footsteps. 

For  a  time  he  was  terrified^  feeling  something  always 
close  at  his  back.  Then  he  was  hard  and  despairing, 
glaring  around  him,  defying  life  to  do  its  worst.  Then 
he  saw  the  long  progression  of  the  years  that  were  to 
come,  and  felt  himself  moving  through  them,  hopeless 
and  weary  of  living.  "  It's  over,  it's  over."  He  won- 
dered why  he  did  not  weep.  He  marveled  that  he  did 
not  break  into  a  run,  trying  to  get  away. 

He  saw  a  man  approaching;  when  he  came  close,  he 
reached  out  his  hand,  and  caught  the  man's  sleeve. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said.  "  I've  just  suffered  a  great 
loss." 

The  man  started  and  stared  and  passed  on,  mutter- 
ing something  that  Amos  could  not  hear. 

So  she  had  gone  away,  like  the  lovely  lady  in  the 
book,  and  had  left  her  lover,  broken-hearted,  a  shat- 
tered ruin  of  what  had  once  been  a  man,  staring  grimly 
and  dry-eyed  down  the  darkened  vista  of  the  long  and 
hopeless  years.  No  hope  was  any  longer  visible;  hope 
had  died. 

He  paced  the  corridors  of  his  deserted  home,  so 
empty  and  cheerless  now;  he  stood  on  the  terrace, 
looking  down  across  the  garden  which  once  she  made 


230  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

more  lovely;  here  she  had  stood,  on  such  a  day;  here 
she  had  smiled;  at  the  corner  of  yonder  wall  she  had 
once  given  him  a  favor  to  wear  for  her  in  the  battle  to 
which  he  went.  The  cypress  trees  stood  dark  against 
the  starry  sky.  The  garden  seemed  to  miss  her,  and 
the  flowers  hung  down  their  heads.  His  horse  seemed 
to  know  that  some  blow  had  fallen,  and  his  dog  came 
whimpering  to  lick  his  hand.  "No,  Roland,  no;  she 
will  never  ride  with  us  again  in  the  forest,  following 
the  merry  huntsman's  horn;  we  shall  never  hear  her 
laugh  again,  as  she  used  to  laugh  in  the  twilight  beside 
the  garden  pool.  Aye,  turn  to  that  door,  old  friend— 
you  will  never  hear  her  step  again." 

As  he  went  through  Elm  Street,  he  saw  a  bright  light 
in  the  dining-room;  they  were  having  supper  without 
him.  Well,  he  could  not  go  in.  He  could  not  go  to 
them  to  ask  for  help.  If  his  father  should  ask  him 
where  he  had  been  till  this  time  of  night;  if  his  mother 
should  look  sorrowfully  at  him,  and  accuse  him  of 
being  a  bad  and  inconsiderate  boy — would  his  trouble 
not  descend  on  him  the  more  heavily?  If,  when  he 
told  them  what  had  happened,  they  should  laugh  at 
him,  and  tell  him  to  find  something  to  occupy  his  mind, 
would  he  not  hate  them?  And  then  he  would  be  alone 
indeed.  No,  he  could  not  go  in. 

As  he  wandered  past  so  many  houses,  watching  the 
cheerful  lights  in  the  windows,  he  suddenly  realized 
that  Belle  no  longer  existed;  she  was  not  in  the  world. 
In  the  imaginary  griefs,  in  the  former  love  quarrels, 
he  could  put  an  end  to  unhappiness,  when  he  had  had 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  231 

enough  of  it,  by  going  to  her  to  make  it  up;  but  now  he 
could  not  make  it  up;  she  had  gone  away  forever. 

But  at  last  he  wore  himself  out.  He  must  go  some- 
where. He  distrusted  home,  and  knew  that  it  could 
not  offer  anything  that  touched  reality,  even  remotely; 
but  he  must  go  somewhere,  and  home  was  the  only 
place  he  knew. 

He  entered  the  sitting-room,  blinking  in  the  strong 
light.  Phanor  sat  reading  his  paper,  and  did  not  even 
lift  his  eyes;  Isabel  rose  silently  from  her  chair  and 
went  to  the  kitchen  to  get  his  supper,  which  she  had 
been  keeping  hot  for  him. 

They  were  in  no  mood  to  speak  to  him.  Thank  God, 
they  were  going  to  let  him  alone. 

"  I  guess  he  knows  about  it,"  Isabel  said,  as  soon  as 
Amos  had  finished  his  supper  and  gone  up  to  bed. 

"  He  knows  about  it,  fast  enough.  Where  else  could 
he  have  been  till  this  time  of  night?  " 

"  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  the  poor  boy.  Do 
you  suppose  he  feels  it  much?  " 

"Of  course  he  don't!  " 'said  Phanor  indignantly. 
"  The  boy's  so  heedless  and  irresponsible." 

"  Well,  he's  not  given  to  telling  how  he  feels.  I've 
been  surprised,  sometimes." 

"  I  suppose  so."  Phanor  meant  to  imply  that  Isabel 
would  be  surprised  at  anything.  "  Why,  a  boy  of  that 
age  don't  know  what  it  is  to  feel  things,  as  you  call  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry.  I 
wish  there  was  something  I  could  do  to  make  it  easier 
for  him." 


232  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Rubbish!  What's  the  need  of  that?  He's  got  out 
of  the  scrape  a  lot  easier  than  anybody  could  have  ex- 
pected." 

"  Well,  of  course.  But  it's  too  bad  it  had  to  happen 
like  this,  just  the  same." 

"  Humph!  Maybe  we'll  have  a  little  peace,  now.  I 
was  getting  pretty  sick  of  it." 

"  If  only  it  don't  depress  him  awfully." 

"Depress  him!  Crickey,  it's  too  bad  about  him! 
No,  he'll  get  over  it  soon  enough,  never  you  fear." 

"  I  hope  so.  I'd  be  so  ashamed  to  have  people  see 
him  moping  around,  and  connect  it  with  this.  If  peo- 
ple should  guess  the  whole  story,  I  don't  know  what 
I'd  do." 

Phanor  was  thinking  that  worse  things  might  hap- 
pen than  that;  suppose  people  should  hear  that  he  had 
been  up  there,  standing  on  the  damn  doorsteps,  like  a 
great  silly,  asking  for  somebody  that  was  dead!  What 
then!  Lord,  as  if  he  didn't  have  enough  to  put  up 
with! 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we're  well  out  of  it,"  Isabel  said. 
"  Maybe  he'll  get  interested  in  Constance,  now." 

"  Who's  Constance,  for  Heaven's  sake?  " 

"Why,  you  know:  Constance  Winterbourne,  that 
was  at  the  Lodge.  They  seemed  to  get  on  so  well  to- 
gether." 

"  What's  the  sense  in  that?  Crickey,  hasn't  the  boy 
got  anything  else  to  do  besides  running  after  some  girl 
all  the  time?  " 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  233 

"  Nonsense,  Phanor!  It's  perfectly  natural  for  him 
to  be  interested  in  the  girls." 

"At  his  age!  " 

"  You  were  yourself,  you  know  you  were." 

"  What's  the  sense  in  saying  a  thing  like  that,  Isabel? 
The  discussion's  not  about  me,  is  it?  " 

"  Well,  but  you  said  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  leave  me  out  of  it,  will  you?  I  simply  sug- 
gested that  he  was  too  young  to  be  running  after  some 
good-for-nothing  girl  all  the  time,  and  you  go  and  try 
and  make  out  that  I  was  always  frittering  away  my 
time  when  I  was  a  boy.  That's  ridiculous,  Isabel." 

"  Constance  isn't  a  good-for-nothing  girl." 

"  What's  she  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  was  interested  in  her,  that's  all. 
She's  such  a  nice  girl.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Mrs. 
Winterbourne  about  it.  I'm  sure  she'd  be  delighted 
if  they  were  to — well,  to  make  a  go  of  it." 

"  I  suppose  she  would,"  Phanor  growled.  "  She'll 
get  somebody  to  run  after  her  daughter,  trust  her! 
Schemer!  " 

"  Why,  Phanor!  I  should  think  you'd  be  glad.  It's 
the  best  possible  thing  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief, 
you  know  it  is." 

"  Crickey,  I  wonder  why  the  boy  hasn't  got  any  self- 
respect!  Always  running  around  with  low  associates!  " 

"  Constance  is  an  awfully  nice  girl." 

"Oh,  keep  quiet,  will  you?  " 

Isabel  accordingly  kept  quiet,  for  some  time. 


234  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

She  watched  Amos  carefully,  hoping  that  he  would 
show  evidence  of  interest  in  Constance,  and  fearing,  at 
the  same  time,  that  his  sorrow  at  Belle's  death  would 
be  obvious,  and  so  cause  a  scandal  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. It  never  entered  her  mind  that  Amos  would  no 
more  think  of  revealing  sorrow  at  Belle's  death  than  of 
revealing  interest  in  Constance.  She  would  have  been 
happy  to  be  taken  into  his  confidence — now  that  it 
couldn't  do  any  harm — and  couldn't  understand  why 
she  was  not. 

Phanor,  of  course,  did  not  watch  at  all.  There  had 
been  an  evil  influence  in  life;  this  influence  was  now 
dead — Lord,  he  guessed  he  knew  it,  seeing  how  he  had 
been  humiliated  in  finding  it  out! — and  there  was  no 
excuse  for  life's  not  becoming  normal  again.  When 
things  were  all  right,  they  didn't  need  watching. 

Amos  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  alone,  reading  poetry. 
"  Oh,  death  in  life,  the  days  that  are  no  more!  " 
"  The  touch  of  a  vanished  hand,  the  sound  of  a  voice 
that  is  still!  "  These  phrases  did  not  exactly  apply  to 
the  case  in  hand,  but  they  came  near  enough;  there 
was  a  fine  and  passionate  sadness  about  them.  He 
knew  that  memory  is  the  only  friend  a  heart  bowed 
down  can  call  its  own,  but,  strangely  enough,  he  soon 
got  over  the  memory  stage,  and  began  to  look  with 
increasing  hope  towards  the  future.  He  struggled 
against  this,  but  it  got  the  better  of  him;  he  altered  his 
attitude,  and  thought  that  decency  and  orthodoxy  de- 
manded that  he  pretend  hopelessness  and  grief,  even 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  235 

if  he  did  not  feel  them.  He  told  Bert  that  he  thought 
the  greatest  line  in  English  Literature  was,  "  Dear  as 
remembered  kisses  after  death."  "  At  least,"  he  added, 
"  it  is  to  me." 

When  school  began  again,  it  was  easier  to  be  sad. 
He  had,  in  the  past,  made  much  of  his  secret  and  dash- 
ing intrigue;  well,  it  was  over  now.  He  dropped  vague 
hints  to  this  effect,  taking  care  that  every  one  should 
know  that  his  love  was  dead,  and  had  not  merely  given 
him  the  mitten.  He  imagined  his  friends  saying, 
11  There  goes  poor  old  Enday.  God,  how  that  man  has 
suffered!  "  Later,  when  it  was  harder  to  keep  up  the 
pretense,  he  dropped  it,  with  elaborate  effort.  Then 
people  said,  "  The  strength  and  courage  of  tfiat  man  is 
beyond  belief!  " 

He  went  out  to  Shrewsbury,  several  times,  to  see 
Constance,  taking  care  that  his  mother  should  not  know 
of  it,  telling  himself  that  she  would  make  a  fuss  about 
it  if  she  knew.  He  knew  that  this  was  not  true,  but 
there  was  no  romance  in  a  case  where  one's  mother 
knew  all  about  it.  Besides,  she  would  say  that  she 
was  delighted,  and  that  would  steal  away  the  greater 
part  of  the  charm.  Besides,  again,  what  had  his  mother 
ever  done  that  he  should  let  her  share  his  life? 

Constance  lived  on  a  farm.  On  the  occasion  of  his 
first  visit,  she  had  showed  him  over  the  place,  and  they 
looked  at  the  animals  and  wandered  through  the  or- 
chard and  down  the  road  to  the  little  red  school-house 
which  Constance  had  attended  as  a  child.  He  tried, 


236  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

more  earnestly  than  ever,  to  discover  some  meaning  in 
her,  to  meet  her  real  self,  because  he  now  felt  free  to 
do  so,  and  felt  some  need  of  her;  but  he  found,  as  be- 
fore, that  she  was  reluctant  to  reveal  herself,  and  drew 
back,  timidly,  before  every  attack.  This  constituted 
something  of  a  challenge. 

His  second  visit  was  made  in  the  winter,  and  they 
sat  primly  in  the  parlor,  before  the  stove,  and  talked. 

The  Winterbourne's  parlor  was  a  sedate  and  quiet 
room,  filled  with  memorials  of  the  past,  as  if  the  family 
were  a  part  of  some  museum  exhibit  to  illustrate  former 
greatness.  The  atmosphere  of  antiquity  seemed  to  in- 
dicate that  life  was  now  over  and  done  with. 

Two  windows  looked  out  towards  the  road  in  front; 
a  third,  its  small  panes  brightly  polished,  afforded  a 
vista  down  through  the  orchard.  This  orchard  window 
must  have  been  one  of  the  most  delightful  places  in  the 
world;  one  felt  that  happy  people  had  sat  there,  in 
times  long  gone,  with  apples  on  the  window  sill  and  a 
gay  fire  dancing  on  the  hearth.  But  no  one  sat  there 
now;  the  fireplace  had  been  bricked  up,  to  keep  out 
mice,  and  it  was  more  delightful,  and  more  prudent,  to 
keep  near  the  stove. 

Above  the  mantel  hung  great-great-grandfather's 
saber,  with  which  he  had  chopped  people  in  half  in  some 
war  that  was  now  actually  in  the  history  books — a  tar- 
nished reminder  of  the  days  when  men  took  life  in  their 
hands  and  did  something  with  it.  On  the  shelf  stood 
great-aunt  Abbie's  hour-glass;  it  marked  the  time  for 
a  hundred  years,  and  would  have  continued  to  do  so. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  237 

had  there  been  any  descendant  with  energy  enough  to 
turn  it  over.  The  tall  and  tottering  secretary  had  be- 
longed to  grandfather  Douglas,  and  was  filled  with  his 
books,  which  were  now  never  read;  he  had  written  his 
Memoirs  at  that  desk — and  a  very  interesting  book  it 
would  have  made,  too,  except  that  it  remained  in  manu- 
script, which  time  had  made  almost  illegible. 

On  the  wall  hung  Uncle  Ebenezer's  portrait;  a  stern 
old  boy,  who  glared  out  over  his  poke  collar  as  if  to 
ask  what  the  devil  all  these  strangers  were  doing  here; 
he  looked  as  if  things  had  gone  wrong,  and  would  con- 
tinue to  go  wrong,  and  no  one  could  say  he  hadn't  pre- 
dicted it. 

As  a  link  between  these  souvenirs  and  more  modern 
times,  there  was  a  cabinet  of  mounted  butterflies;  the 
fact  of  this  collection's  existence  expressed  modernity, 
but  the  insects  themselves  were  falling  to  pieces,  and 
no  one  was  quite  ancestral  enough  to  care  for  them,  nor 
quite  modern  enough  to  throw  them  away. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  stood  a  quartered  oak  table 
with  glued-on  ornaments.  It  held  a  pair  of  snuffers  on 
a  tin  tray,  a  photograph  album,  upholstered  in  yellow 
plush,  with  a  heart-shaped  mirror  on  the  cover,  a 
bronze  inkstand,  deeply  corroded,  made  in  the  general 
shape  of  a  battleship,  and  a  box,  lined  with  red  satin, 
and  covered  on  the  outside  with  small  shells,  arranged 
in  patterns.  The  lamp  was  of  china,  with  a  brass  base; 
on  its  shade  a  group  of  dark  brown  and  pin-headed 
swallows  chased  one  another  round  and  round  with 
crazy  zeal. 


238  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Between  the  front  windows  hung  a  «cuckoo  clock, 
which  had  never  run  since  the  hornets  built  a  nest  in  it. 
In  the  corner  was  a  black-wainut  what-not,  filled  with 
diminutive  animals,  cast  in  lead,  a  mother-of-pearl 
pincushion  boat,  and  a  greasy-looking  statuette  of  a 
Dutch  cheese-vendor,  made  of  soap. 

The  stove  was  a  vast  and  glittering  machine,  poking 
itself  out  into  the  room;  it  stood  on  a  square  of  em- 
bossed zinc,  and  behind  it  was  a  wood-box  and  a  gal- 
vanized coal  hod  and  shovel.  There  was  never  a  fire 
in  it  except  when  Constance  had  callers. 

The  door  which  led  from  the  hall  to  the  parlor  was 
protected  by  a  portiere  of  elongated  porcelain  beads, 
which  clanked  like  icicles  whenever  it  was  drawn  aside 
to  allow  any  one  to  enter. 

Amos  felt  that  something  must  be  done  to  break  up 
this  organization,  or  the  world  would  go  to  hell  within 
a  week. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  you  this,  Constance," 
he  said,  as  they  sat  before  the  stove.  "  But  I  want  you 
to  know." 

"  Don't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to,"  Constance 
said.  "  What  is  it?  " 

"  Well,  once  I  knew  a  girl.  She  wasn't  what  you'd 
call  a  proper  girl;  I  don't  suppose  a  lady  would  speak 
to  her,  but  she's  stuck  by  me  in  places  where  a  lady 
would  have  left  me  to  my  fate.  She  was  very  beauti- 
ful, and  I  loved  her." 

He  paused,  and  looked  over  to  watch  the  effect  on 
Constance,  who  saw  what  was  coming,  and  sat  silent. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  239 

"  You  must  understand,"  he  went  on.  "  I  had  been 
living  along,  day  by  day,  in  the  ordinary  way — Oh,  I 
know  what  it  is  to  feel  a  limitation  of  the  spirit!  I 
know  what  it  is  to  be  shut  in  in  a  world  too  narrow! 
My  father  and  mother — well,  I  kept  finding  things  that 
I  wanted  to  know  about,  and  they  wouldn't  tell  me." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Constance. 

"  No,"  said  Amos,  "  you  wouldn't." 

"  Why  wouldn't  I?  "  asked  Constance,  turning  to 
him  quickly. 

Amos  altered  his  meaning  promptly. 

"  I  mean,  your  parents  weren't  like  that." 

He  knew  that  this  was  not  true.  All  parents  were 
like  that;  parents  owned  their  children,  and  as  soon  as 
you  owned  a  person,  you  were  through  with  under- 
standing. 

"  Well,  I  met  this  girl,"  he  went  on.  "  Beatrix,  her 
name  was.  And  the  world  was  a  different  place,  after- 
wards. She  made  the  sun  shine,  she  put  the  stars  in 
the  sky;  she  was  the  birds  singing,  and  the  wind  blow- 
ing over  the  meadows,  and  .  .  .  and  I  read  lots  of 
poetry." 

"  I  should  say  you  had!  "  Constance  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  I  could  tell  you,  but  I  can't.  It 
was  love,  don't  you  see?  And  I  guess  you  can't  tell 
about  love." 

Constance  was  silent. 

"  And  then,"  Amos  continued,  dropping  his  voice 
almost  to  a  whisper,  "  Then  she  died." 

"  That  was  too  bad,"  said  Constance  severely. 


240  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

It  was  Amos'  turn  to  be  silent. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  told  me  that  for,"  Constance 
said. 

"  I  thought  it  was  interesting." 

"  Did  you  think  it  would  interest  me?  " 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  through  Amos  mind. 
"  This  is  bad!  "  he  told  himself.  "  The  girl's  offended; 
that  must  mean  .  .  ."  He  dared  not  finish  the 
thought. 

"  I'll  have  to  be  going  along,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to 
be  home  early  to-night.  I'll  have  to  take  the  early 
train." 

"  You've  got  loads  of  time/'  Constance  assured  him. 
"  It's  almost  half  an  hour." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  take  any  chances  to-night. 
There's  a  special  reason." 

When  Constance  came  with  him  to  the  door,  he 
turned  suddenly  to  her,  apprehensive  and  distrustful, 
but  curious. 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  offended  you,"  he  said.  "  You  didn't 
like  my  telling  you  that,  did  you?  " 

"Mercy!  Why  should  I  mind?"  said  Constance 
lightly. 

Amos  left. 

Oh,  yes;  of  course!  Why  should  she  mind?  She 
did  mind,  though.  Did  she  think  he  had  told  her 
something  improper?  She  wasn't  any  better  than  all 
the  rest  of  them;  as  soon  as  something  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary happened,  she  had  to  go  and  pretend  it  was 
awful!  Couldn't  she  be  interested  in  anything?  Did 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  241 

she  have  to  relate  everything  to  herself?  That's  what 
she  had  done.  Lord,  was  she  one  of  these  "  Thou  shalt 
not  have  any  other  girls  before  me  "  people?  What 
nonsense!  Did  she  fancy  he  loved  her?  Silly  little 
snippet! 

He  scowled  and  thought  profanity  all  the  way  home 
in  the  train.  Crazy  little  kid,  getting  offended  at  a 
thing  like  that!  Well,  she'd  see.  He  was  through 
with  her. 

In  a  few  days,  however,  Constance  wrote  him  a 
polite  and  friendly  letter,  inviting  him  to  the  Saint  Val- 
entine's Day  Dance.  This  was  the  most  significant 
and  important  of  the  social  events  at  the  Shrewsbury 
Institute;  the  fact  that  she  had  asked  him  to  come  to 
it  meant  that  she  had  forgiven  him,  and  that  she  wanted 
him  back  again.  That  was  all  right.  Let  her  beg  a 
little;  it  wouldn't  hurt  her. 

He  put  the  letter  on  the  floor  of  his  room,  conspicu- 
ous in  the  center  of  the  rug.  Isabel  found  it,  as  he  had 
expected,  picked  it  up,  and  put  it  on  his  table,  where 
he  found  it  when  he  returned. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  going  into  the  sewing-room 
where  she  was  at  work.  "  I've  got  to  go  out  to  the 
Washington's  Birthday  Dance  with  Constance." 

"Oh,  how  lovely!  "  Isabel  exclaimed.  "Have  you 
got  a  clean  shirt  to  wear?  " 

"  So  you  didn't  read  that  letter,  after  all,"  he  said. 

"  What  letter?  " 

"  Oh,  the  letter  from  Constance.  It's  for  Saint  Val- 
entine's Day,  not  Washington's  birthday." 


242  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  I'm  not  a  bit  suspicious  about  your  correspondence 
with  Constance;  not  the  slightest  particle,"  Isabel 
said.  "  Of  course  I  didn't  read  it." 

"  I  was  just  wondering  if  you  were  honest  only  when 
you  weren't  suspicious,"  Amos  said. 

As  he  turned  to  leave  the  room,  he  saw  his  mother 
hang  her  head,  and  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done. 

The  day  of  the  dance  duly  came,  and  Amos  went  out 
to  Shrewsbury  to  attend. 

Nothing  happened.  That  is  to  say,  it  was  the  usual 
brilliant  occasion,  and  every  one  enjoyed  it.  Constance 
wore  a  new  and  pretty  dress,  and  Amos  told  her  so; 
she  beamed  on  him,  and  everything  became  serene 
again.  Not  that  she  thrilled  him;  she  didn't  belong  at 
a  dance,  anyway;  she  belonged  at  home. 

"  Let  her  stay  there,  then,"  thought  Amos. 

On  the  way  home,  he  decided,  quite  simply,  to  run 
away. 

It  was  a  difficult  thing  to  run  away,  evidently.  More 
people  would  do  it,  if  it  were  easy.  But  he  thought  he 
could  manage  it.  He  should  have  to  keep  his  courage 
up,  for  a  week  or  two,  until  the  danger  of  capture  was 
passed,  and  until  he  had  gotten  started  in  his  new  life. 
Then,  they  would  write  and  ask  him  to  come  back, 
probably.  Well,  they  could  write  all  they  pleased.  He 
would  reply:  "  I  am  happy  and  prosperous  here;  why 
should  I  return?  I  have  all  that  I  need.  You  must 
manage  to  get  along  without  me."  Then  he  would  give 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  243 

the  letter  to  his  Japanese  servant  to  post,  and  would 
think  no  more  of  it. 

He  set  his  escape  for  the  following  Friday.  He  made 
no  preparations,  for  fear  of  arousing  suspicion.  He 
didn't  need  much,  anyway:  just  some  money,  and  a  few 
books.  He  would  go  to  Italy,  where  he  might  sit  and 
watch  the  sun  sink  into  the  water,  or  see  the  moonlight 
shimmering  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses.  He  would  stay 
long  enough  to  become  a  great  and  rich  man,  and  then, 
perhaps,  come  back. 

But  suppose  he  did  not  become  famous — or  even 
rich?  There  was  a  chance  of  it.  Indeed,  as  he  thought 
it  over,  it  seemed  probable.  He  had  always  been  good 
for  nothing  in  school,  and  in  all  the  relations  to  practical 
life;  his  father  and  mother  had  told  him,  often  enough, 
that  he  had  no  better  than  an  even  chance,  anyway, 
and  perhaps  not  quite  so  much  as  that;  he  did  not 
really  believe  them,  but  they  had  proof  on  their  side, 
and  he  had  none  on  his.  After  all,  perhaps  most  peo- 
ple— Phanor  and  Isabel  excepted — had  dreams  and 
hopes  as  valid  as  his  own,  but  most  of  them  either 
failed,  or  were  too  prudent  to  try.  Would  it  not  be  fool- 
ish to  take  the  desperate  chance,  when  there  was  no 
real  need  of  it?  Why,  he  might  be  a  failure  of  the 
worst  possible  sort — that  is,  a  failure  who  had  run 
av/ay  from  home  for  that  special  purpose. 

But  how  would  his  father  and  mother  feel?  They 
would  crow,  of  course,  and  say,  "  Now  see!  "  No,  that 
wouldn't  do. 


244  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Isabel  would  look  back  on  the  years  of  his  babyhood, 
and  think  of  all  the  ambitions  she  had  had  for  her  son. 
Phanor  would  go  down  to  the  Mill,  humiliated  and 
ashamed,  avoiding  his  friends  for  fear  of  being  ques- 
tioned. Isabel  wouldn't  dare  face  Mrs.  Fleetwood  or 
Mrs.  Wilson;  Phanor  would  meet  Mr.  Winterbourne, 
when  they  went  to  the  lodge — they  would,  perhaps,  be 
going  to  the  lodge  then — and  Mr.  Winterbourne  would 
ask  Phanor  whatever  became  of  that  son  of  his.  The 
other  boys  would  all  be  successful,  with  homes  of  their 
own;  they  would  sit  around  and  shake  their  heads  over 
him,  and  say  that  it  was  a  pity  for  him  to  turn  out  a 
failure,  when  he  had  had  such  a  good  start. 

Friday  came  and  went,  and  Amos  stayed. 

There  was  at  school  a  woman  named  Herrick,  who 
taught  freehand  drawing  to  such  of  the  pupils  as  were 
thought  eligible — that  is,  pupils  who  were  so  solidly 
normal  and  inartistic  that  they  could  be  trusted  among 
the  dangers  and  temptations  of  the  "  studio."  Miss 
Herrick's  "  studio  "  was  a  rambling  room  with  a  sky- 
light, partitioned  off  from  the  rest  of  the  garret  of  the 
school.  It  was,  of  course,  forbidden  to  all  the  girls  and 
boys  who  did  not  take  freehand  drawing. 

Amos,  on  one  occasion  when  he  was  wandering 
through  the  corridors  looking  for  something  to  relieve 
his  boredom,  passed  along  the  top  floor,  and  hearing  a 
slight  rustling  noise  in  the  studio,  stopped  at  the  open 
door  to  investigate. 

He  saw  Miss  Herrick  bending  down  before  a  cup- 
board in  the  corner;  she  rummaged  in  the  depths  of 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  245 

the  shelves,  took  out  a  bottle,  from  which  she  took  a 
long  drink,  and  which  she  then  replaced.  She  wiped 
her  mouth  on  the  back  of  her  hand,  took  a  cautious 
look  about  her,  though  without  seeing  Amos,  and  went 
out  of  the  studio  by  another  door. 

Amos  entered  at  once,  as  soon  as  Miss  Herrick  had 
had  time  to  get  to  a  safe  distance,  and  pried  into  the 
cupboard. 

One  of  the  other  teachers,  knowing  very  well  that 
Amos  had  no  business  on  the  top  floor,  and  scenting 
some  mischief,  had  followed  him,  and  paused  in  the 
studio  door  in  time  to  see  him  on  his  knees  before  the 
cupboard  in  the  corner,  holding  a  bottle  of  whiskey  in 
his  hand.  The  teacher  had  collared  him,  and  lead  him 
off  downstairs  to  the  Principal's  office. 

He  concocted  a  fanciful  yarn  about  how  it  happened 
that  he  had  been  caught  thus  red-handed,  but  he  made 
no  mention  of  having  seen  Miss  Herrick — if  the  old 
fool  wanted  a  nip  of  whiskey,  and  couldn't  get  it  in 
any  other  way,  he  wasn't  going  to  tell  on  her. 

"  I  am  appalled  at  this  story,"  said  Mr.  Hill,  the 
Principal. 

He  wrote  a  note  to  Phanor,  explaining  the  matter, 
and  suggesting  that  Amos  was  not  a  fit  boy  to  retain 
as  a  pupil  in  a  school  which  had  always  taken  pride  in 
its  moral  tone,  and  remarking  that  Phanor  would,  no 
doubt,  agree  with  him  as  to  the  proper  course  to  take. 

"Amos,  Amos!  "  wailed  Isabel.  "How  could  you 
do  such  a  terrible  thing!  " 

"  I  didn't  do  anything,  I  tell  you.    It  wasn't  my 


246  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

whiskey.  What  would  I  want  with  a  bottle  of  whiskey, 
anyway?  I  should  think  you'd  have  more  sense  than 
to  ask  me  a  thing  like  that!  " 

"  But  what  were  you  doing  there  in  the  first  place? 
You  knew  you  had  no  business  in  the  studio,  didn't 
you?  It's  the  most  shameful  thing  I  ever  heard  of. 
And  whiskey,  too!  " 

"  I  guess  maybe  it  was  Miss  Herrick's  whiskey," 
Amos  suggested. 

"There  you  go,  you  dirty  blackguard!  "  Phanor 
shouted.  "  What  in  hell  do  you  mean  by  saying  a 
thing  like  that  about  one  of  your  teachers!  Tell  me 
that,  will  you!  I'm  damned  if  I  ever  .  .  ." 

"  Phanor!  Phanor!  "  cried  Isabel. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  with  you?  "  Phanor  said. 
"You'll  have  to  be  sent  somewhere  to  school,  won't 
you?  Unless  maybe  you  want  to  be  a  hod  carrier! 
My  God!  I'd  look  pretty,  wouldn't  I?  " 

Amos  had  an  impulse  to  pounce  on  Phanor  and 
thrash  him.  But  he  thought  of  the  endless  trouble  this 
would  cause,  and  resisted  the  temptation. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  You  can  take  me  out  of 
school  for  this,  if  you  want  to.  Go  ahead  and  fire  me. 
I  won't  stay  around  here  to  bother  you.  And  you'll  get 
fooled,  just  the  same,  because  I  haven't  done  anything." 

"  Oh,  is  that  so?  "  Phanor  retorted.  "  I  suppose 
Mr.  Hill's  letter  is  made  up  out  of  whole  cloth,  is  that 
it?  He's  a  liar,  too,  I  suppose,  according  to  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  he's  really  a  liar,"  Amos  said, 
easily.  "  He'll  know  more  than  he  does,  some  day." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  247 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  go  to  bed,  or  somewhere,  and 
shut  your  fool  mouth!  I'm  sick  of  you!  " 

After  Amos  had  gone,  Isabel  took  Phanor  to  task  for 
his  language  and  his  temper,  and  Phanor  said: 

"Oh,  I  give  up!  I  don't  know  what  to  do!  It's 
just  one  thing  after  another.  He  keeps  getting  into 
scrapes,  and  choosing  low  associates,  and  when  I  try 
to  reason  with  him  he  talks  like  an  idiot.  Think  of  the 
disgrace  of  having  to  take  him  out  of  school.  Oh, 
damnation!  I  can't  bear  it!  " 

However,  within  the  week  Miss  Herrick  discovered 
the  trouble  she  had  caused,  and,  to  free  Amos  from 
blame,  she  confessed  the  whole  story,  and  tendered  her 
resignation. 

No  one  ever  apologized  to  Amos,  but  Mr.  Hill  wrote 
a  very  humble  letter  to  Phanor,  and  begged  his  pardon 
for  the  lamentable  and  unintentional  insult. 

This  episode  did  not  have  its  full  effect  till  six  months 
had  passed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  school  year,  there  was 
uneasiness  in  the  air;  the  Senior  class  was  pre- 
paring to  graduate,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talk 
of  colleges  and  careers  and  getting  started  in  life. 
Amos  was  out  of  it.  He  had  always  regarded  his  own 
position  as  fixed  and  settled,  but  now  he  found  that  he 
was  more  unsettled  than  any  one  else. 

He  wasn't  ready  to  start;  he  hadn't  made  up  his 
mind.  He  told  himself  that  he  had  merely  a  clear 
choice  to  make:  should  he  go  into  the  Mill  directly 
school  was  over,  or  should  he  go  to  college  first?  But 
he  knew  that  his  real  choice  was  between  going  into 
the  Mill  willingly,  and  going  in  unwillingly.  And  col- 
lege would  give  him  time  to  think. 

"  Dad,  I'd  like  your  advice,"  he  said  to  Phanor. 

"  What's  the  matter  now?  " 

"  Nothing.  But  about  the  future.  I've  only  got  one 
more  year  in  school,  and  I've  got  to  begin  to  think 
about  college." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  about  it?  " 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  talk  about.  I  can't  go,  of 
course,  unless  you'll  send  me.  Now,  do  you  think  I 
ought  to  go,  and  do  you  want  to  send  me?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  want  to  give  you  every  advantage," 

248 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  249 

Phanor  said.  "  I've  always  said  that.  I'm  thankful  I 
can  pay  the  bill.  It's  just  a  question  of  whether  col- 
lege is  worth  the  extra  time  or  not,  just  a  question  of 
whether  college  is  the  wisest  thing  or  not,  that's  all." 

"Yes;  that's  the  question." 

"  I  don't  think  there's  any  doubt  but  what  the  col- 
lege man  has  an  advantage.  I  can  see  that,  down  at  the 
Mill,  every  day.  The  men  that  have  been  to  college 
are  free  in  their  tastes.  Of  course,  it  takes  another 
three  or  four  years;  a  man's  that  much  longer  hi  get- 
ting started.  It's  a  question  whether  or  not  it's  worth 
the  extra  time." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Things  down  at  the  Mill  have  been  unsettled— have 
been  for  a  number  of  years.  I've  seen  men,  recently, 
advanced  right  over  the  heads  of  men  that  have  been 
there  longer  than  they  have." 

"  Well,  were  they  college  men?  " 

"  Some  of  them  were,  and  some  of  them  weren't. 
Men  get  ahead,  and  make  successes  of  themselves,  on 
their  ability.  Nobody's  going  to  put  a  man  ahead  just 
because  he's  been  to  college,  you  know." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  do  you  think  a  college  man 
has  a  better  chance?  " 

"  Well,  it's  hard  to  say,  offhand." 

Evidently  it  was  impossible  to  say. 

Phanor  would  have  liked  to  say  that  college  was  an 
absolute  essential  for  success,  but,  if  he  said  that,  it 
would  imply  that  he  himself  owed  his  success  to  his 
college  training,  and  it  "  wouldn't  be  wise  "  to  give 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

the  boy  that  idea.  He  had  succeeded,  in  spite  of  the 
handicap  of  careless  training  and  rather  stupid  par- 
ents, because — well,  hang  it  all,  because  he  was  Phanor 
Enday!  The  boy  had  great  confidence  in  him,  and  ad- 
mired him;  there  was  no  sense  in  smashing  the  boy's 
ideals,  was  there? 

Amos  was  wondering  how  he  could  manage  to  con- 
ceal his  true  reason  for  wanting  to  go  to  college— 
namely,  that  it  would  offer  him,  perhaps,  some  chance 
of  escape  from  the  Mill.  Terrible  as  it  seemed  to  say 
it,  he  didn't  want  to  go  into  the  Mill  at  all. 

"  Well,"  he  said.  "  There's  this  side  to  the  question, 
too.  I  should  think  that  a  college  man  would  be  in  a 
better  position  to  choose  what  he  wanted  to  do." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Why,  there  are  other  things  besides  the  Mill,  I 
should  think." 

"  Certainly  there  are,"  said  Phanor,  disappointed. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  boy,  anyway?  Weren't 
things  hard  enough,  without  trying  to  branch  out  into 
something  untried? 

"  Well,  I  was  just  thinking  that  perhaps  I  might  find 
something  I  liked  better." 

"  I'm  not  urging  you  to  go  into  the  Mill,  my  boy. 
There's  plenty  of  other  things.  But  you  want  to  re- 
member that  you've  got  a  start  in  the  Mill,  because  of 
my  position,  that  you  wouldn't  get  elsewhere,  maybe. 
That's  all.  There's  no  sense  in  throwing  away  an  op- 
portunity." 

"  Well,  no.    Only,  some  things  aren't  worth  while." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  251 

"  Good  Lord,  boy!  I  guess  a  place  in  the  world  is 
worth  while!  If  you  want  to  be  a  success,  and  have 
some  of  the  comforts  of  life,  and,  later  on,  a  few  of  the 
luxuries,  perhaps,  you've  got  to  get  out  and  hustle  for  it. 
Money  don't  grow  on  bushes,  you  know." 

Amos  was  thinking  of  the  story  of  how  his  father  got 
his  start.  Mr.  Fleetwood  had  come  along  with  an  op- 
portunity, and  Phanor  had  been  keen  enough  to  see  it. 
No,  one  couldn't  afford  to  take  any  chances.  Phanor 
had  never  had  an  opportunity,  after  that  first  one. 

And  yet — the  thought  was  terribly  insistent — what 
did  it  avail  a  man  if  he  gained  the  whole  world  and  lost 
his  own  soul?  Was  there  something  in  that,  or  was  it 
just  nonsense  out  of  Sunday  School? 

"  Of  course,  if  you've  got  some  chance  I  don't  know 
about  .  .  ."  Phanor  was  saying,  facetiously.  This  was 
the  concluding  remark  of  a  long  speech,  to  which  Amos 
hadn't  listened. 

"  No,  I  haven't." 

"  Well,  you've  got  to  do  something,  haven't  you? 
You  can't  be  dependent  on  me  all  your  life,  can  you? 
Unless,  of  course,  you're  content  to  be  a  failure." 

"You  bet  not!  " 

"Well,  then." 

"  I'd  like  a  chance  to  look  around  a  little  and  make 
up  my  mind,  that's  all." 

"  You've  had  chances  enough,  I  should  think,  in  all 
these  years." 

"  I  know.  I've  thought  about  it  a  lot.  Only,  I  can't 
decide  about  college.  What  would  be  your  advice?  " 


252  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Well,  of  course,  a  college  education  is  an  advan- 
tage to  a  man;  I  guess  you  see  that  for  yourself. 
Whether  it's  worth  the  extra  time  or  not,  is  another 
question." 

And  so  on,  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour. 


When  vacation  time  arrived,  the  house  was  closed, 
the  gas  and  water  shut  off,  the  silver  hidden  in  the  wall- 
paper barrel,  the  police  notified,  the  whole  machine 
wound  up,  wrapped  and  sealed  for  the  precarious  period 
of  absence,  and  the  Endays  set  out  for  Lakeside  Lodge, 
hot  and  worried,  wishing  it  were  over. 

At  Mahocket  Junction  they  scrambled  off,  and  their 
trunk  was  bounced  down  beside  them.  The  train 
pulled  out,  leaving  silence  behind  it;  as  the  noise  of  the 
locomotive  grew  faint  in  the  distance  the  croaking  of 
the  frogs  in  the  pond  across  the  road  became  audible, 
and  the  stamping  of  the  horse,  tormented  by  the  buzz- 
ing flies. 

Constance  had  ridden  over  from  the  Lodge  to  meet 
them. 

"  Jinks!  I'm  glad  to  see  you!  "  she  cried. 

She  shook  Amos  heartily  by  the  hand,  made  a  polite 
salutation  to  Phanor,  and  then  went  up  to  Isabel  and 
kissed  her!  This  was  serious. 

"  I  thought  Amos  and  I  could  just  walk  over,"  Con- 
stance said. 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  lovely,"  said  Isabel. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  253 

"  Crickey,  that  long  walk!  Look  out  you  don't  get 
lost." 

"  How  absurd,  Phanor." 

Amos  and  Constance  set  out  together;  in  a  few 
minutes  the  buckboard  passed  them — Isabel  gave  them 
an  encouraging  smile  through  the  thick  cloud  of  dust 
that  rose  behind — and  they  were  left  alone  on  the  quiet 
sunny  road.  The  birds  sang  in  the  woods,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds  were  passing  over  the  faces  of  the 
hills. 

"  It  certainly  is  great  to  be  here  again,"  Amos  said. 
"  I  wish  I  could  live  in  this  sort  of  place  always." 

"  Oh,  it's  just  too  heavenly!  "  Constance  admitted. 
"  But,  just  the  same,  I'll  bet  you'd  get  sick  of  it." 

"  Oh,  you  live  in  the  country  all  the  time,  of  course. 
I  suppose  people  always  want  to  live  somewhere  they 
can't.  I  do.  Anywhere  at  all,  so  long  as  it's  some- 
where else." 

Constance  smiled,  and  then  looked  puzzled. 

"  How  funny!  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Funny!  That's  a  queer  idea  of  what's  funny/  Do 
you  see  what  it  means?  With  me,  it  means  that  I'm 
all  unsettled  and  mixed  up  and  undecided.  I  feel  as  if 
I  were  in  a  cage,  all  the  time.  I  want  something,  and 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  and  I  don't  know  where  to 
look  for  it." 

"  Some  place  to  live,  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  I  guess  so!  "  Amos  sighed,  wearily.  What  was 
the  use  of  telling  Constance  these  things?  She  couldn't 


254  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

help.  She  couldn't  see  what  it  was  all  about.  He 
might  talk  to  her  all  day,  and  she  never  get  the  idea 
that  there  might  be  something  radically  wrong  with 
life — why,  she  couldn't  even  see  that  there  was  such  a 
thing  as  life,  something  separate  from  her  own  exis- 
tence. She'd  say,  "  How  funny!  "  just  like  anybody 
else.  That  was  the  trouble  with  Constance;  she  was 
just  like  everybody  else. 

"  Well,  I  like  it  here.  This  is  a  good  enough  place 
for  now,"  he  said.  "  If  I  could  only  be  sure  of  it — or  of 
anything!  But  I  don't  suppose  I'll  ever  see  it  again, 
after  this  summer." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"I've  only  got  one  more  year  in  school.  And  then 
I'm  going  into  the  Mill,  or  else  to  college." 

"Oh,  college!  "  Constance  sounded  resentful  and 
disappointed. 

"  Well,"  Amos  said,  desperately,  "  it'll  keep  me  out 
of  the  Mill  that  much  longer,  anyway." 

"  But  don't  you  want  to  go  into  the  Mill?  " 

"  I  hate  it.    I  hate  the  very  idea  of  it!  " 

"  Why,  I  think  it's  just  the  dandiest  chance !  With 
your  father  there,  and  everything!" 

"  Yes.  I've  worked  in  the  Mill  before.  Just  one  day 
after  another,  stuck  in  with  a  lot  of  poisonous  old  pigs 
that  don't  know  any  more  than  just  to  keep  on  grub- 
bing along.  And  making  thread — Gee,  you  don't  even 
make  thread!  If  you  did,  it  would  be  something!  But 
you  sit  at  the  desk  all  day  and  shove  little  bits  of  paper 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  255 

around  and  talk  about  what  you're  doing,  and  you 
don't  do  a  thing!  " 

Constance  laughed,  and  then  became  serious. 

"  I  think  you're  horrid  and  cynical  to  talk  like  that," 
she  said. 

"  I'm  sick  of  it,  I'll  tell  you  that  much.  If  only  the 

Mill  wouldn't  get  me,  I  wouldn't Oh,  I  wouldn't 

care  what  happened." 

"  Suppose  everybody  felt  like  that?  " 

"  Well,  they  don't.  Lord,  the  way  people  livel 
Cooped  up  and  stuck  to  a  desk,  fussing  around!  And 
marrying  somebody  that  just  wants  you  to  keep  your 
job  and  make  a  lot  of  money!  " 

"  That's  mean  of  you,  to  say  that.  That's  the  way 
most  people  do." 

"  That's  the  trouble  with  it." 

"  Well,  wouldn't  you  want  to  ever  get  married?  " 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  be  not  married  and  wish  I  was, 
than  married  and  sorry  for  it." 

"  I  guess  you'd  get  over  that,  fast  enough,  if  the 
right  girl  came  along." 

"  Oh,  the  right  girl,  yes!  Then  I  wouldn't  be  sorry 
for  it,  don't  you  see?  Always  talking  about  *  getting 
somewhere,'  and  that  means  getting  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  Mill." 

"  But  ...  People  are  like  that!  " 

"  It's  too  bad,  isn't  it?  " 

"You  great  big  goose!     What  do  you  want  to  go 


256  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

and  pretend  you're  different  from  everybody  else 
for?  " 

"  Well,  supposing  you  are  different  from  everybody 
else?  What  then?  " 

"  But  you're  not!  "  Constance  cried.  She  was 
stoutly  defending  him  against  his  own  accusations. 

"  You  don't  know  me,"  Amos  said. 

For  some  time  they  walked  in  silence. 

"Look,  there's  cur  hill!  "  Constance  said.  "Re- 
member? I've  been  up  there,  often,  to  the  place  we 
picked  out." 

"  Have  you  been  down  on  the  other  side  yet?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No." 

Amos  thought,  "  Of  course  not;  you  wouldn't  do 
anything." 

"  I  was  waiting  till  you  came,"  Constance  went  on. 

"  All  right;  let's  go  this  afternoon.    Want  to?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  if  I  can.  I  sort  of  half  promised 
I'd  go  for  a  walk  with  Doctor  Penny." 

"  Who's  he?  "  asked  Amos,  quickly. 

"  Why,  you  know!  He  was  here  last  year.  He's  the 
Doctor  at  Sheridan  Academy  now." 

"  Oh,  is  he?  " 

"  He's  just  the  dearest  thing!  We  go  for  walks  a 
lot!  " 

Amos  looked  across  at  h«?r.  There  were  no  pointed 
lightnings  above  her  head — not  even  a  muttering  of 
thunder! 

"  And  you  knew  I  was  coming!  "  he  said. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  257 

"  Well  ...  Oh,  what  day  is  to-day?  Is  this  Sat- 
urday? Isn't  that  the  funniest  thing?  I  was  thinking 
it  was  Friday!  Jinks!  It  was  yesterday  I  was  going 
with  Doctor  Penny.  He  must  have  waited  for  hours. 
What'll  he  think!  " 

"  Something  foolish,  probably,"  Amos  said. 

Constance  looked  at  him. 

As  they  approached  the  Lodge,  they  saw  Phanor 
and  Isabel  on  the  porch,  where  the  Misses  Cadwallader 
were  welcoming  them,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Winter- 
bourne  close  at  hand.  Mrs.  Winterbourne  waved  to 
them  as  they  came  in  sight  at  the  turn  of  the  road. 

"Well,  my  boy;  glad  to  see  you!  "  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne  said  to  Amos. 

Then  Mrs.  Winterbourne  came  forward,  beaming — 
as  always — and  kissed  him!  He  began  to  think  up 
some  excuse  for  postponing  his  walk  with  Constance, 
but  before  he  could  find  any  words,  Constance  came 
into  the  conversation. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  she  said.  "  Amos  and  I  want  to  go 
up  the  hill  after  lunch,  and  go  down  on  the  other  side, 
in  the  valley.  Can  we,  Mother?  " 

"  That  will  be  lovely!  "  Mrs.  Winterbourne  said. 

Amos  went  to  his  room — the  familiar  one  which  he 
had  occupied  the  year  before — thinking  that  there  was 
no  way  to  stop  the  girl,  if  she  had  once  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  wanted  something. 

But  she  had  kissed  Isabel,  and  her  mother  had 
kissed  him!  There  was  something  sinister  behind 
that. 


258  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

There  were,  obviously,  nearly  as  many  different 
views  of  life  as  there  were  people  in  the  world — well, 
of  course,  with  the  exception  that  most  of  the  people 
in  Wilton  stuck  together.  Who,  Amos  wondered,  was 
to  say  what  was  what?  Some  one  must  be  right. 

And  then  came  Frank,  the  stable-man,  with  his  in- 
terpretation of  the  round  world. 

Amos  had  wandered  out  to  the  barn,  one  evening 
after  supper  as  the  shadows  were  growing  long  across 
the  lake,  and  came  upon  Frank,  standing  in  an  easy 
and  picturesque  attitude  beside  a  small  fire.  He  was 
without  his  coat,  and  his  vest  was  unbuttoned,  and  he 
wore  a  knotted  handkerchief  about  his  neck;  there  was 
something  very  appealing  in  the  picture,  and  Amos 
came  up  and  stood  gazing  into  the  fire. 

"  A  fire's  great  company,  when  a  man's  lonesome," 
Frank  said. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  you  looked  like  a  cow-boy," 
Amos  said. 

"  Yes.  They  generally  builds  a  small  fire  like  that; 
just  a  bunch  of  twigs,  where  an  ordinary  man  would 
be  using  damn  great  logs.  And  the  smoke  goes  straight 
up  into  the  sky." 

"  That  sounds  like  Arizona,"  Amos  ventured. 

"Arizona,  and  everywhere  out  there." 

"  Were  you  ever  a  cow-boy?  " 

"  Me?  Hell,  no!  It  takes  too  much  energy.  But 
I've  seen  plenty  of  'em,  out  West." 

"  What  were  you  doing?  " 

"  Oh,  riding  the  bumpers,  mostly.    I  been  all  over. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  259 

Out  to  'Frisco.  Oh,  yes.  You'll  see  an  old  woman, 
dodging  around  the  back  streets  with  a  stick  and  a 
spike  in  the  end  of  it,  and  a  long  cloak.  And  every 
once  in  a  while  she'll  make  a  jab  with  the  stick  and 
pick  a  cigar  stump,  or  something,  and  slip  it  into  the 
bag  she's  hiding  under  her  cloak,  looking  around,  all 
the  time,  because  it's  against  the  law  to  make  cigarettes 
out  of  all  them  butts  and  things.  Yes,  Board  of 
Health.  And  sometimes  you'll  be  sneaking  up  some 
back  alley,  and  you'll  see  a  light  in  a  window,  and 
you'll  look  in,  and  there'll  be  one  of  these  old  b'God 
hags,  grinding  and  grinding  on  a  machine  and  feeding 
the  butts  in  with  the  other  hand,  and  smoking  one 
herself,  as  like  as  not,  and  maybe  she  ain't  particular 
about  where  the  spit  goes.  They  sell  'em  for  a  penny 
a  pack." 

"  They  must  be  awful  cigarettes." 

"  Oh,  they  ain't  so  bad  as  you'd  think.  If  you 
don't  know  where  they  come  from.  I've  smoked  'em, 
myself.  And  I've  got  many  a  ride  off  'em,  giving  'em 
to  a  brakeman.  Those  are  the  sons  of  wolves,  those 
brakemen!  Damned  if  they  won't  do  anything;  stomp 
on  a  man's  fingers,  throw  him  right  off  the  top  of  a 
car;  anything." 

"Why,  there  was  a  road  out  there  one  time,  of- 
fered a  thousand  dollars  if  a  hobo  could  steal  a  ride 
on  their  line;  their  brakemen  was  such  devils.  A 
thousand  dollars,  they  said,  if  a  man  could  sneak  a 
hundred  miles  off  'em." 

"  And  did  anybody  do  it?  " 


260  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Sure,  yes!  I  knew  the  feller.  There  was  another 
that  tried  it,  and  they  pretty  near  killed  him;  threw 
coal  on  him,  and  he  had  to  jump  off  the  top  of  the 
car,  going  thirty  miles  an  hour,  b'God!  But  this  feller 
did  it." 

"  How?  " 

"  Riding  in  the  water  tank,  in  the  tender,  the  whole 
way.  The  devil!  With  the  water  up  to  his  chin!  " 

"  And  did  they  pay  him?  " 

"  Sure  they  did!  How  could  they  help  themselves? 
They  came  to  the  end  of  the  run,  and  he  lifts  up  the 
lid  and  shoves  his  head  up  out  of  the  tank,  and  says, 
where's  my  thousand  dollars,  and  they  had  to  give  it 
to  him.  Called  him  right  into  the  president's  office, 
and  he  give  it  to  him.  Him  and  me  bummed  it  to- 
gether for  a  while  after  that,  and  you  bet  your  foot 
we  traveled  in  style  while  it  lasted.  No  ordinary 
coaches  for  us;  we  used  the  Pullmans." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  then?  " 

"  Well,  when  the  money  was  gone,  we  made  tin- 
types at  a  fair  for  a  while.  And  then  we  got  sick  of 
the  damn  tintypes,  and  was  riding  the  trucks  one  time, 
when  the  weather  got  cold,  going  South,  and  he  fell, 
somehow,  and  the  brake-beam  hit  him,  and  killed  him. 
Right  down  between  the  rails.  I  didn't  ride  the  trucks 
no  more,  after  that." 

"  How  did  you  do  it,  then?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  them  bumper-beams  that  go  across 
the  ends  of  the  cars?  Well,  I'd  put  my  sit-down  on 
one  of  'em,  and  my  feet  on  the  other,  and  ride  along 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  261 

as  comfortable  as  you  please.  If  you  ever  slip,  it's 
good-by.  I've  had  many  a  ride  that  way.  You'll 
be  riding  along,  sitting  there,  looking  out  between  the 
cars  at  the  sides,  and  you  see  a  fire,  way  off  b'God  on 
the  prairie,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  you'll  get  a  crack 
on  the  knob,  and  you'll  look  up,  and  there'll  be  a 
son  of  a  wolf  of  a  brakeman,  throwing  coal  down  on 
you.  You'll  grab  every  rag  you  have  on  you — be- 
cause, by  Judas,  it'll  blow  off  if  you  didn't — and  you 
just  jump  straight  out  in  the  dark,  and  maybe  you 
land  in  the  river,  or  go  head  over  ginbottle  down  the 
bank.  And  you  get  up  and  poke  along  over  to  the 
fire,  and  there'll  be  some  hoboes — maybe  twenty, 
maybe  thirty  hoboes;  a  hell  of  a  crowd — all  sitting 
round  the  fire,  and  you'll  tell  'em  you're  hungry,  and 
they'll  say  'Sure!  '  and  chuck  you  a  whole  chicken, 
like  as  not,  and  you're  so  damn  hungry  you  could  bite 
the  Northeast  corner  off  a  sewer,  and  you'll  tear  right 
into  the  damned  thing,  whether  it's  cooked  or  not. 
They'll  give  a  man  anything,  those  devils." 

"  And  what  do  they  do?  " 

"  Why,  they  sit  around  the  damn  fire,  these  sons 
of  wolves,  and  they  roll  dice,  and  the  feller  that  rolls 
the  lowest,  he  has  to  go  into  town  the  next  day  and 
beg  for  the  crowd,  and  they  can  order  anything  they 
like.  If  it's  a  feller  they  hate,  they'll  order  the 
damnedest  things — I  heard  a  feller  order  Charlotte 
Russe  one  time.  And  the  feller  can't  come  back  till 
he's  got  everything." 

"  Did  you  ever  have  to  go  out  like  that?  " 


262  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Once  I  did.  And  I  got  everything,  only  there  was 
one  devil  that  had  ordered  pie,  and  I  couldn't  raise  none, 
high  or  low,  and  I  cut  a  woman's  grass  for  her,  and 
she  give  me  a  dime,  and  I  bought  a  pie.  They'll  give 
you  anything,  those  people." 

"  Why,  one  time  I  was  riding  a  freight  with  a  feller, 
and  we  stopped  for  water,  and  me  and  him  went  up 
to  a  house  that  was  near  the  track,  and  the  woman 
give  us  a  regular  sit-down  meal  in  the  kitchen.  And 
the  other  lad,  he  was  letting  on  to  be  deaf  and  dumb, 
and  I  did  the  talking.  Well,  while  we  were  eating,  the 
engineer  give  a  whistle,  and  this  damn  fool,  that  was 
supposed  to  be  deaf  and  dumb,  he  hollers  out  '  By 
God,  there  goes  our  train!  '  We  scooped  up  the  grub 
and  lit  out." 

"  What  did  she  do?  " 

"  She  watched  us  go.  What  the  hell  else  could  she 
do? 

"  One  time  I  was  riding  a  freight  in  from  Canada, 
and  I  got  a  job  keeping  the  fires  going  in  a  bunch  of 
cars  that  was  loaded  with  potatoes,  and  as  soon  as  we 
got  started,  I  begin  to  sell  the  potatoes.  Everywhere 
we  stopped,  the  farmers  would  come  down,  and  I'd  sell 
'em  for  a  nickel  a  bushel,  and  when  I  got  to  the  end 
of  the  trip  they  give  me  ten  dollars  and  I'd  sold  forty 
dollars'  worth  of  potatoes." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  what  you  stay  around  here  for," 
Amos  said. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  going  to  be  here  long.  What's  the  use? 
When  the  cold  weather  comes,  I'll  light  out  for  the 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  263 

sunny  south,  I  guess.  I'll  go  to  Louisville,  Kentucky, 
and  get  into  a  fight  with  some  lads  in  front  of  the  jail. 
They've  got  the  best  jail  in  Louisville  I  was  ever  in." 

Amos  came  away  from  that  interview,  and  from 
several  subsequent  ones,  feeling  that  he  had  discovered 
a  last  resort.  If  worse  should  come  to  worst,  now  that 
he  knew  how  hoboes  lived  .  .  .  if  he  had  known  this 
when  he  had  tried  to  run  away,  how  differently  life 
might  have  turned  out!  Frank  was  a  failure,  true 
enough,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  have  hurt  him;  failure 
never  hurt  a  man  who  didn't  care  whether  he  failed 
or  not. 

"Don't  you  ever  get  riding  the  bumpers,  son," 
Frank  seriously  told  him,  when  he  opened  the  subject 
again. 

"  Why  not?  "  Amos  asked.  "  It  sounds  like  a  great 
life,  I  should  think." 

"  I'll  tell  you  why  not,"  Frank  answered.  "  You 
get  started,  and  you  can't  stop.  Look  at  me;  I  ain't 
never  been  more  than  two  months  in  one  place,  ever 
since  I  was  a  kid.  I  been  here  near  a  month,  now, 
and  it's  about  time  I  was  getting  somewhere  else." 

He  stood  there  over  his  fire,  his  hand  on  his  hip, 
gazing  into  the  embers. 

For  several  days  Amos  had  noticed  that  his  father 
and  mother  were  spending  a  great  deal  of  time  with 
Doctor  Penny,  but  the  circumstance  aroused  no  spe- 
cific suspicions,  for  he  had  never  done  more  than 
exchange  the  ordinary  daily  civilities  with  the  doctor, 


264  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

and  could  not  believe  that  the  conversation  was  related 
in  any  manner  to  himself.  But  the  interviews  con- 
tinued, and  often,  as  he  looked  back  to  the  porch  as 
he  was  starting  out  for  a  walk  with  Constance,  he  saw 
Phanor  and  Isabel  in  earnest  talk  with  the  Doctor, 
leaning  forward  towards  one  another,  with  their  chairs 
drawn  close  together.  Then  he  became  curious. 

He  found  an  opportunity  to  linger  near  them,  trying 
to  overhear,  but  though  they  kept  on  talking,  it  was 
with  the  air  of  people  who  have  just  changed  their 
subject,  and  he  learned  nothing. 

"  What  are  you  and  Dad  talking  with  Doctor  Penny 
about?  "  he  asked  Isabel. 

"  Nothing  whatever,"  Isabel  answered.  "  If  it's  of 
any  interest  to  you,  you'll  find  out  all  about  it  in  good 
time." 

Obviously,  something  terrible  was  about  to  happen. 

A  few  days  after  this,  finding  Phanor  and  Isabel 
alone  on  the  porch,  he  strolled  up  and  took  a  seat  on 
the  edge  of  the  floor  at  his  mother's  feet,  thinking  that 
he  might  as  well  know  the  worst  at  once. 

"  What  would  you  say  to  going  away  to  school?  " 
Phanor  asked. 

"What  school?" 

"  Oh,  some  good  school." 

"  Why,  I  don't  understand.    What's  the  idea?  " 

"  I  asked  a  simple  question,  I  should  think,"  Phanor 
said.  "  Your  mother  and  I  have  been  talking  it  over, 
and  we  thought  it  might  be  a  good  idea  for  you  to  go 
away  to  school  for  this  last  year,  perhaps." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  265 

Amos  saw  a  faint  chance  for  escape;  at  any  rate,  it 
couldn't  land  him  in  a  worse  place  than  he  was  now  in. 
Phanor  was  obviously  waiting  for  him  to  say  he  was 
delighted. 

"  I'd  like  that,  very  much,"  he  said. 

"  What  would  you  say  to  Sheridan  Academy?  n 

That  was  different! 

"  I'd  like  it  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world!  " 
he  cried.  Why,  Sheridan  Academy  was  a  real  chance 
for  escape — its  reputation,  the  boys  who  attended  it, 
the  fact  that  it  was  not  in  Wilton  .  .  .  why,  perhaps 
he  was  to  be  saved,  after  all ! 

"  I  was  sure,  from  what  Doctor  Penny  said,  that 
you  would  like  the  idea,"  Isabel  said. 

Amos  really  knew  nothing  of  Sheridan  Academy  ex- 
cept that  Dick  Fleetwood  expected  to  go  there,  some 
day,  and  was  very  cocky  about  it.  Isabel  knew  this, 
too,  and  had  been  on  Doctor  Penny's  side  of  the  argu- 
ment from  the  first. 

"  Your  mother  and  I  think  you're  not  getting  much 
out  of  Wilton  High  School,"  Phanor  said.  "  Such  a 
lot  of  sap-heads." 

"  That's  what  I've  always  thought,  myself,"  Amos 
said.  "  What's  Sheridan  like?  " 

He  wanted  to  appear  more  enthusiastic,  as  he  felt; 
but  it  wouldn't  do  to  show  any  emotion  before  his 
parents. 

"  It's  a  very  fine  school,"  Isabel  said.  "  Nice  boys 
go  there,  and  it  would  be  better  for  you,  probably,  than 
staying  around  at  home." 


266  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Amos  was  amazed  at  this.  Was  his  mother  actually 
admitting  that  there  might  be  something  for  Amos 
Enday  beyond  the  sphere  of  influence  of  the  parlor  at 
97  Elm  Street?  So  it  would  seem.  She  had  spoken  as 
if  she  were  fully  conscious  of  making  a  great  sacrifice 
and  of  waiving  her  rights  to  keep  him  under  her  wing. 

"  You  may  learn  something,"  said  Phanor,  not  to 
be  outdone.  "That  is,  if  you  tend  to  business,  and 
don't  waste  your  time.  You  might  meet  people  that 
would  be  an  advantage  to  you." 

Phanor  wanted  it  distinctly  understood  that  he  was 
spending  a  great  deal  of  money.  He  wasn't  called  upon 
to  send  the  boy  to  Sheridan,  was  he?  Well,  then. 

"Why,  I  think  this  is  great!  "  Amos  cried.  "Do 
you  really  mean  it?  " 

"  I  said  so,  didn't  I?  "  said  Phanor. 

"Well,  yes;  but  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  Do  you 
mean  I  can  go  right  on  and  do  the  same  work  I'm  doing 
at  Wilton?  " 

"  Doctor  Penny  gives  me  to  understand  that  your 
work  would  be  accepted  for  the  Senior  class  at  Sheri- 
dan." 

"  Gee,  that's  bully!    When  does  it  begin?  " 

"  Now,  you're  not  to  regard  it  as  settled,  you  know. 
It  was  just  a  suggestion." 

"  But  I'll  have  to  know  pretty  soon,"  Amos  urged. 
"Ill  have  to  get  ready,  and  everything." 

"  There's  plenty  of  time  yet,"  Phanor  said.  "  And 
I  want  you  to  understand  this;  if  you  go,  it  means 
work.  I  don't  want  any  shirking  of  lessons,  or  fooling. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  267 

The  money's  not  to  be  thrown  away;  you're  to  under- 
stand that,  right  from  the  start." 

Amos  saw  from  this,  that  the  matter  had  already 
been  decided,  and  he  promised,  naturally,  to  work  hard 
and  justify  the  money  spent  on  him. 

He  wandered  off  in  the  woods  to  think  on  his  good 
fortune. 

They  were  letting  him  get  away!  Did  that  mean 
that  he  was  to  decide  things  for  himself?  Or  did  it 
mean  that  there  was  really  no  chance  of  it?  They 
wouldn't  have  taken  this  chance  so  gaily,  he  reasoned, 
if  there  was  a  possibility  that  he  might  avail  himself 
of  it. 

He  approached  Doctor  Penny  with  questions,  and 
was  handed  a  pamphlet  of  the  school.  In  reading  it, 
and  in  looking  at  the  pictures,  which  showed  Sheridan 
to  be  in  quite  the  most  beautiful  place  in  the  world, 
and  a  true  Paradise  for  the  boys  whom  it  accepted,  he 
forgot  all  about  its  possible  opportunities,  and  thought 
of  it  only  as  a  new  and  fascinating  experience. 

When  he  looked  at  the  magnificent  corridors  of  the 
school,  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  he  should  ever 
walk  along  them.  When  he  saw  a  group  of  Sheridan 
boys,  gathered  about  an  athletic  trophy  that  they  had 
won,  it  seemed  incredible  that  he  would  one  day  actu- 
ally speak  with  just  such  boys.  Was  he  the  same  per- 
son who  used  to  go  to  school  cross-lots?  Was  he  to  be 
blessed  with  the  dignity  and  urbanity  of  a  "  faculty  " — 
the  same  boy  who  had  had  to  endure  the  stupidity  of 
Miss  MacReady?  Why,  it  was  only  a  few  years  since 


268  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

he  had  wondered  desperately  how  he  was  to  reach  the 
world  at  all! 

He  told  Constance  the  news,  and  she  was  jubilant. 
Sheridan  was  the  very  best  thing  she  could  imagine; 
anything  better  would  have  been  out  of  her  world 
altogether. 

"Jinks!  "  she  cried.  "I'll  just  die  of  stuck-up- 
ness,  knowing  a  boy  that  goes  to  Sheridan!  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  go  to  Sheridan?  "  Amos  retorted, 
somewhat  sharply.  In  his  heart,  though,  he  felt  that 
there  was  something  miraculous  about  it.  But  that 
was  no  reason  for  Constance  to  be  proud! 

On  the  last  day,  as  they  were  preparing  to  leave, 
Constance  said: 

"  I  hope  you  won't  be  too  proud  to  write,  once  in  a 
while." 

"Why,  no,"  he  answered,  scowling  at  her  as  if  to 
pretend  that  he  didn't  know  what  she  meant.  "  Why 
should  I  be  proud?  Don't  be  silly!  " 

In  consequence  of  this  little  encounter,  she  bade  him 
good-by  more  coldly  than  he  had  expected,  and  sent 
him  away  disappointed  and  bewildered.  It  was  quite 
the  cleverest  thing  she  could  have  done,  for  he  thought 
about  her  in  the  train  all  the  way  back  to  Wilton. 

Constance  wasn't  so  bad.  True,  she  was  irritating  at 
times,  and  there  were  things  about  her  that  required 
forbearance.  He  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  envious 
of  him  because  he  was  going  to  Sheridan,  and  jealous 
of  the  school  for  taking  him  away  into  another  world. 
What  did  she  think?  Silly  little  ninny!  Yet  she  had, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  269 

by  her  very  resentment — if  that  is  what  it  was — raised 
him  in  his  own  esteem,  and  caused  him  to  view  his 
prospects  with  still  greater  enthusiasm.  And  he  fell 
to  wondering  if  she  had  done  this  intentionally. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  Reverend  Lynall  Kimber,  while  he  was  at 
college,  had  been  a  councilor  in  a  boy's  sum- 
mer camp.  After  his  graduation,  he  had  continued 
this  connection,  because  he  liked  the  work  and  saw  in 
it  continued  opportunity  for  service;  in  time  he  had 
started  a  camp  of  his  own.  People  said  that  it  was 
because  he  took  an  interest  in  service  of  humanity; 
the  fact  of  the  matter  was,  the  camp  paid  much  better 
than  the  ministry;  for  one  or  another  of  these  reasons, 
at  any  rate,  he  had  given  up  his  pastoral  duties  alto- 
gether, and  devoted  his  genius  to  boys'  camps. 

During  the  winters,  he  wrote  books,  and  his  "  Mould- 
ing Young  Manhood,"  and  "  As  the  Twig  is  Bent " 
had  raised  him  to  first  rank  among  the  more  progres- 
sive educators  of  his  time.  It  is  doubtful  if  his  books 
were  much  read  beyond  the  limits  of  his  own  friend- 
ship, but  his  friends  were  the  very  ones  to  best  appre- 
ciate him,  and  he  attained  a  considerable  reputation. 
Yet  he  was  not  content. 

His  camp  work  was  a  monotonous  repetition,  year 
after  year,  changing  only  in  that  the  amount  of  his 
income  increased  as  he  became  more  efficient  in  man- 
agement; as  for  his  books,  he  had  put  forth  everything 
he  had  to  say,  and  felt  that  he  would  never  again  be 
able  to  attain  the  high  level  of  the  works  on  which  his 

270 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  271 

reputation  rested.  Accordingly,  he  had  looked  about 
for  something  else,  and,  by  taking  in  a  few  boys  to 
tutor,  and  gradually  increasing  their  number,  he  had 
built  up  something  that  might  be  considered  a  school. 

He  was  still  a  young  man,  and  ambitious;  he  was  as 
sincere  and  earnest  as  a  cannon-ball;  his  friends  rallied 
around  him  to  help  in  his  venture,  and  by  the  time  he 
was  fifty  he  had  established  the  Sheridan  Academy. 
He  chose  Lakewood  as  its  site,  and  the  corporation 
which  he  formed  was  able  to  erect  a  group  of  splendid 
modern  buildings  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  village,  with 
beautiful  views  across  the  valleys  in  all  directions.  He 
never  walked  about  the  hill-top,  or  paced  the  shining 
corridors  of  his  school,  without  feeling  a  thrill  of  de- 
light and  pride  in  his  achievement;  he  could  not  see 
that  any  man,  anywhere,  at  any  time,  would  have  been 
able,  granting  the  circumstances,  to  do  more  than  he 
had  done. 

The  majority  of  his  stockholders,  who  were  also  his 
friends,  lived  in  Lakewood,  and  this  fact  enabled  him 
to  put  special  emphasis  on  the  social  advantages  that 
his  school  could  offer.  Besides  this,  he  made  a  feature 
of  "  producing  young  gentlemen  "  out  of  "  manly  ma- 
terial," and  of  his  "  honor  system,"  which  was  carried 
out  by  means  ol  an  elaborate  schedule  of  fines. 

When  some  of  the  young  gentlemen  were  sent  to  his 
office  to  be  disciplined,  he  used  to  marvel  at  his  ability 
to  swagger  and  lord  it  over  them,  although  he  was  ac- 
customed to  being  in  charge  of  boys;  and  whenever  he 
spun  about  in  his  chair,  and  looked  out  down  the  valley 


272  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

— on  a  clear  day  he  could  see  the  sun  shining  on  the 
roofs  of  Wilton,  twenty  miles  away — he  used  to  be 
astonished  at  the  miracle  that  had  thus  placed  him  at 
the  top  of  the  world. 

Great  geniuses,  he  reflected,  are  almost  always  un- 
conscious of  their  greatness.  But  this  was  chiefly  on 
account  of  their  characteristic  modesty,  and  modesty 
was  another  of  the  qualities  in  which  he  was  preemi- 
nent. 

There  were  several  interesting  and  influential  peo- 
ple in  Lakewood,  and  they  formed  a  social  group,  with 
Dr.  Kimber  at  its  head,  and  kept  on  excellent  terms 
with  him  because  of  his  school.  As  for  the  village 
itself,  it  lived  by  the  presence  of  the  school  boys,  and 
considered  Sheridan  Academy  the  most  important  of 
the  world's  institutions. 

On  the  2ist  of  September,  1894,  Amos,  carrying  a 
new  and  shining  suitcase,  climbed  down  from  the  train 
at  the  Lakewood  station,  in  company  with  some  other 
boys,  to  whom  he  had  not  dared  to  speak,  and  looked 
about  him  with  the  air  of  a  man  just  landed  on  a  desert 
island. 

As  he  started  up  through  the  village,  and  saw  the 
red  brick  buildings  of  the  school,  his  heart  went  down 
into  his  shoes.  He  was  to  be  a  regular  Sheridan  Boy. 
And  he  did  not  know  how  to  do  it.  He  had  no  training 
nor  traditions  behind  him  to  show  him,  and  there  was 
nothing  specific  before  him  except  a  vague  hope  that 
he  would,  somehow,  be  able  to  fit  into  the  organization, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  273 

and  be  inconspicuous  and  orthodox.  But  it  was  no 
small  thing  to  be  an  orthodox  school  boy,  when  he 
didn't  know  how. 

However,  he  put  on  a  brave  front,  and  walked  on 
ahead  of  the  others  who  had  come  in  the  train  with 
him,  arriving  alone  at  the  school  gates,  and  starting 
alone  up  the  gravel  walk  that  led  to  the  main  entrance. 
As  he  approached,  he  saw  a  group  of  boys  lounging  on 
the  steps,  and  he  could  see  them  looking  at  him,  and 
turning  to  speak  to  one  another,  as  if  they  were  dis- 
cussing him,  and  he  wished  he  had  never  come. 

"  Where  can  I  find  Doctor  Kimber,  please?  "  he 
asked,  addressing  the  group  in  general. 

The  boys  all  looked  up  at  one  of  their  number,  as  if 
they  recognized  him  as  their  natural  spokesman. 

"  Are  you  a  new  boy?  "  this  one  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Amos  said.  "  That  is,  I'm  going  to  start  in 
in  the  Senior  Class." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  boy,  drily.  "  I  thought  maybe 
you  were  one  of  the  new  professors.  So  you  want  to 
see  old  B.  F.,  do  you?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  Doctor  Kimber,"  Amos  said. 

"Yes;  his  real  name's  old  B.  F.  He's  in  there." 
He  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder.  "  Door  straight 
ahead.  Maybe  he'll  tell  you  something  you  ought  to 
know." 

Amos  went  in.  To  right  and  left  of  him  stretched  a 
long  corridor,  with  patches  of  sunlight  lying  on  its  pol- 
ished floor.  It  was  very  different  from  the  dark  and 
musty  hallways  of  the  Wilton  High  School. 


274  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  went  across  to  the  door  which  faced  him,  and 
knocked,  feebly,  wondering  if  this  were  the  proper  thing 
to  do.  A  muffled  voice  answered  from  within;  he 
opened  the  door,  and  entered. 

A  dried  and  twisted  man,  thin,  and  abrupt  in  his 
movements,  with  a  sharp  and  shallow  chin  that  almost 
met  his  nose,  hooked  like  an  eagle's  beak,  and  fierce 
keen  eyes — Doctor  Lynall  Kimber,  Head-master  of 
Sheridan  Academy. 

"  Doctor  Kimber?  "  Amos  murmured.  This  was  a 
foolish  start,  he  thought;  who  else  could  it  have  been? 

"  The  same." 

"  I'm  a  new  boy.  My  name  is  Enday;  Amos  Enday. 
From  Wilton." 

The  Doctor  leaped  from  his  chair,  darted  forward, 
and  clutched  Amos  by  the  hand. 

"  I'm  pleased,  indeed,  to  see  you,  sir.  I  have  been 
advised  of  your  arrival.  Registration  in  the  Common 
Study  at  half-past  twelve.  Find  Robertson,  the  Head 
Boy  of  West  House;  he'll  show  you  your  room." 

Doctor  Kimber  flung  himself  back  into  his  chair  and 
relapsed  into  a  spasm  of  abstraction. 

Amos  turned  to  the  door,  and  said,  "Thank  you, 
sir." 

Doctor  Kimber  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand,  and 
permitted  himself  a  rapid  smile. 

"  Welcome  to  Sheridan,"  he  said,  and  stared  pierc- 
ingly at  his  paperweight. 

After  this  rather  startling  reception  by  Doctor  Kim- 
ber, Amos  felt  able  to  meet  the  group  on  the  steps 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  275 

again  with  more  assurance  than  he  had  shown  before, 
and  he  went  out  again  and  asked  for  a  boy  named 
Robertson. 

"  I'm  Robertson,"  said  the  boy  who  had  spoken  be- 
fore. "  What  might  you  want?  " 

"  Doctor  Kimber  told  me  to  ask  for  you,"  Amos  said. 
"  He  said  you'd  tell  me  what  to  do.  My  name's 
Enday." 

Robertson  introduced  him  to  the  other  boys,  one  of 
whom,  Duncan  by  name,  looked  him  over  appraisingly. 

"  He'll  make  a  miler,  won't  he,  Robby?  "  Duncan 
asked. 

"  Maybe,"  Robertson  said.    "  Can  you  run?  " 

"  I  never  did,"  said  Amos. 

"  Oh.    Where  did  you  go  to  school?  " 

"  Wilton  High." 

"Oh.  Well,  we'll  see  what  we  can  make  of  you. 
Now,  for  a  starter;  never  call  old  B.  F.  anything  but  old 
B.  F.  Understand?  " 

"  Is  that  Doctor  Kimber?  "  Amos  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Robertson,  "  it's  old  B.  F.  That  stands 
for  Beetle  Face.  You've  seen  him,  haven't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  you  didn't  need  to  ask,  I  should  think. 
Come  along,  and  I'll  show  you  your  den." 

Amos  followed  to  West  House,  which  was  connected 
with  the  main  school  by  a  covered  passageway;  Rob- 
ertson referred  to  a  card  which  he  took  from  his 
pocket,  and  showed  him  up  to  a  small  room  on  the  sec- 
ond floor,  which  was  to  be  his  own.  It  contained  a 


276  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

bed,  a  desk,  two  chairs,  and  a  bureau.  The  view  from 
the  window,  as  from  every  other  window  in  the  school, 
was  extensive  and  beautiful. 

"  This  is  your  den,"  Robertson  said.  "  You're  to  be 
in  it  every  night  after  eight  o'clock,  and  no  lights  after 
half-past  ten.  Your  trunk  goes  in  the  closet,  not  out 
here  in  the  room.  Don't  put  any  pictures  up  on  the 
walls.  Never  tell  anybody  your  first  name ;  I  happen  to 
know  it's  Amos,  but  nobody  else  is  supposed  to  know. 
Seniors  don't  have  any  bounds,  and  you  can  go  any- 
where you  like,  except  to  the  Lakewood  House  before 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Always  wear  a  derby  on 
Sundays,  but  never  during  the  week,  unless  you're 
going  somewhere  special.  Don't  ever  lock  your  door; 
never  cheat;  never  squeal.  If  you  want  to  know  any- 
thing, ask  me.  Registration's  at  half-past  twelve,  in 
the  Study,  at  the  other  end  of  the  Main  School.  That's 
all  you  need  to  know." 

Robertson  went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

Amos  listened  to  the  footsteps  growing  more  distant 
down  the  hall  and  descending  the  stairs. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  surveyed  the 
room.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  ever 
really  been  alone. 

After  registration,  which  seemed  to  Amos  a  very 
dignified  and  urbane  proceeding,  the  heads  of  the  two 
houses  called  a  general  meeting  of  the  students.  The 
entering  class  was  instructed  in  the  meaning  of  life,  and 


THE  PAFLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  277 

told  how  to  cultivate  and  preserve  that  essential  of  es- 
sentials, School  Spirit;  the  older  boys  then  made 
speeches,  interrupted  by  a  great  deal  of  cheering  and 
applause,  outlining  the  school's  achievements  for  the 
coming  year;  at  the  end,  the  meeting  was  thrown  open, 
and  the  seniors  moved  about  among  the  members  of 
the  lower  classes,  urging  participation  in  extra-curric- 
ulum activities. 

:i  You're  going  out  for  the  mile,  aren't  you?  "  asked 
one  of  the  boys  who  had  been  on  the  steps  with  Rob- 
ertson when  Amos  arrived.  "  You  ought  to." 

"  Well,  I  will  if  I  dare,"  Amos  said. 

"  Sure,  you  dare.    That's  the  proper  spirit." 

"  Well,  I  never  ran  before,  you  know.  I  don't  be- 
lieve I'll  be  much  good  at  it." 

"Shucks,  that's  no  way  to  make  a  runner!  Hey, 
Wilson;  come  on  over  here  a  minute.  Here's  a  man 
that  wants  to  go  out  for  the  mile." 

Wilson,  Captain  of  the  Track  Team,  strolled  over, 
and  Amos  was  introduced  to  him. 

"  What's  your  time  for  the  mile?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.    I  never  ran,"  Amos  said. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  be  a  miler,  you've  got  to  beat 
Harvey,  you  know.  Think  he  can  beat  Harvey, 
Dunk?  " 

The  two  boys  exchanged  amused  glances. 

"  I'll  try,"  Amos  said,  stoutly  enough,  though  he  ex- 
pected to  be  struck  dead  for  his  presumption. 

Wilson  laughed  outright. 


278  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  I  must  tell  old  Harvey  that,"  he  said.  "  You  come 
on  down  to  the  Track  House  to-morrow  afternoon  at 
four,  and  we'll  see  what  you're  good  for." 

All  this  seemed  terrible,  yet  it  delighted  him.  The 
Captain  of  the  Track  Team,  the  school  in  general,  the 
whole  world,  looked  towards  him  now  with  the  expecta- 
tion that  he  would  make  something  of  himself.  This 
was  just  what  he  had  always  wanted,  but  he  had  not 
realized  that  the  task  would  carry  with  it  so  great  a 
load  of  responsibility.  Why,  he  had  to  announce,  in 
advance,  what  he  was  going  to  try  to  do!  If  he  should 
fail,  the  whole  school  would  know  of  it!  This  matter 
of  being  a  personality  seemed,  after  all,  to  have  a  public 
aspect. 

He  did  not  see  that  no  more  was  being  asked  of  him 
than  that  he  should  conform  to  the  organization  of 
which  he  was  a  part;  but  if  he  had  seen  it,  it  is  prob- 
able that  he  would  have  recognized  the  fact  that  con- 
formity with  Sheridan  was  a  vastly  more  satisfying 
thing,  and  more  in  his  line,  than  conformity  with  the 
onandates  of  his  father  and  mother,  and  the  spirit  of 
the  parlor  at  home. 

At  the  end  of  his  second  day  in  school,  he  wrote  to 
his  father  as  follows: 

They  wanted  me  to  go  out  for  Track,  and  see  what  I 
could  do  in  the  mile,  and  so  I've  been  down  to  the  Track 
House  this  afternoon.  They  only  let  me  do  a  half,  and  I 
got  pretty  well  winded,  but  I'm  going  to  try  again,  and 
start  training.  Wilson  wouldn't  tell  me  the  time  I  made, 
but  I  guess  it  was  pretty  good,  because  they  wanted  me  to 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  279 

come  out  to-morrow.  There's  a  boy  named  Harvey  that's 
the  school's  best  miler,  and  runs  in  the  big  Meet,  and  unless 
I  can  get  fast  enough  to  beat  him  I  won't  get  in.  It  means 
lots  of  hard  work. 

He  stopped  at  that,  and  chewed  his  penholder  for  a 
time,  reflecting  on  the  probable  effect  of  what  he  had 
written.  At  first  he  thought  it  would  perhaps  be  un- 
wise to  send  such  a  letter  at  all,  but  then  he  saw  that 
unless  he  made  a  firm  stand  now,  at  the  very  begin- 
ning, there  would  be  trouble  about  athletics  all  the  rest 
of  his  life.  So  he  decided  to  stick  to  what  he  had  writ- 
ten, but  added  another  paragraph,  as  a  sop  to  Re- 
spectability: 

I  shall  try  very  hard  to  get  good  marks  in  my  school 
work,  because  I  know  you  are  paying  a  lot  for  me  to  be 
here,  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  appreciate  it. 

A  few  days  later,  Phanor  replied: 

MY  DEAR  AMOS: 

I  have  yours  of  the  22nd.  I  must  warn  you  in  advance 
that  all  thought  of  athletics  must  stop  if  it  seems  to  come 
into  conflict  with  your  school  work.  I  am  the  last  one  to 
disapprove  of  athletics,  but  there  are  more  important  things 
in  life,  and  you  must  not  neglect  your  studies.  I  would 
suggest  that  it  might  be  wiser  to  postpone  the  running  until 
some  later  date,  when  you  have  had  time  to  accustom 
yourself  to  the  ways  of  the  school,  and  have  established 
yourself  as  a  student.  I  cannot  afford  to  have  you  fritter 
away  your  time  on  non-essentials.  Your  mother  joins  me 
in  this. 


280  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

You  neglected  to  mention  what  arrangements  you  had 
made  in  regard  to  your  laundry. 

Your  affectionate 

FATHER. 


It  was  very  evident  that  Phanor  wanted  the  boy  to 
turn  over  a  new  leaf,  but  he  seemed  to  fear — and,  as  he 
thought  about  it,  Amos  feared  it,  too — that  there  was 
danger  of  his  turning  the  wrong  leaf,  or  of  turning  too 
many,  and  skipping  something. 

Amos  thought  it  probable  that  there  were  no  other 
parents  in  all  the  world  so  stubbornly  dedicated  to 
safety  in  life  as  his  own  were,  nor  any  who  moved  in 
a  path  quite  so  unregardful  of  all  that  lay  on  either 
hand.  This  made  his  case  special,  and  different.  Also, 
it  was  probable  that  the  other  school  boys  were  not 
worrying  about  things  all  the  time,  as  he  was  doing, 
but  he  had  been  doing  it  since  he  was  a  baby,  and  he 
couldn't  stop. 

He  set  out  for  the  Track  House,  every  afternoon,  in 
high  enthusiasm.  This  was  something  that  interested 
him;  his  parents  were  not  urging  it,  and  it  had  no 
special  conformity  with  the  rules  of  conduct.  He  had 
done  things  like  this  before,  he  told  himself.  But  they 
seemed  to  have  been  done  a  long  time  ago,  in  a  mood 
of  recklessness  and  rebellion  that  was  unknown  to  him 
now. 

He  ran  well.  There  were  three  other  possibilities 
for  the  mile;  the  first  he  defeated  with  comparative 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  281 

ease;  the  second  he  crowded  rather  hard;  Harvey,  the 
leader,  was  as  yet  far  out  of  reach,  though  not  so  far 
that  there  was  no  hope  of  ever  overtaking  him. 

Perhaps,  if  he  gave  up  everything  in  the  effort  to 
snatch  the  school  record  for  the  mile,  he  might  suc- 
ceed, and  thus  gain  an  achievement  of  his  own.  But 
how  absurd!  Could  he  go  back  to  the  world  and  say, 
when  he  was  asked  what  he  was  good  for,  that  he  was 
the  best  miler  in  Sheridan  Academy? 

He  returned  in  a  mood  of  profound  depression.  He 
felt  like  apologizing  for  the  time  he  had  spent.  This 
surprised  him,  and  made  him  uneasy.  Why,  he  had 
always  been  one  to  sneak  out  of  his  work  on  every  pos- 
sible occasion  and  count  it  pure  gain!  Responsibility 
weighed  heavily  on  him.  He  was  no  longer  what  he 
had  been.  It  must  be  that  age  was  beginning  to  have  its 
effect  on  him. 

But  he  worried  about  it  and  debated  over  it  with 
himself,  trying  to  see  some  way  out  of  it,  when  there 
was  really  nothing  to  get  out  of.  He  was  in  a  new 
manner  of  life,  but  he  sighed  to  think  that  he  was  the 
same  old  person. 

When  he  went  home  for  the  Christmas  vacation, 
Phanor  and  Isabel  were  delighted  with  the  very  credita- 
ble list  of  marks  he  was  able  to  present.  Amos  looked 
so  well,  and  was  so  enthusiastic,  and  told  such  merry 
tales  of  his  adventures  and  his  good  times,  that  they 
began  to  think  they  had  done  wisely  in  sending  him 


282  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

away  to  school.  They  spent  many  evenings  in  con- 
versation, praising  each  other — after  their  own  fashion 
— for  having  been  so  discerning. 

He  said  little  about  the  Track  Team.  He  seemed 
now  in  a  fair  way  to  beat  out  the  second  on  the  list  of 
the  school's  milers,  and  even,  in  more  sanguine  mo- 
ments, to  give  Harvey  a  struggle  for  his  place,  but  he 
saw  that  this  was  something  that  would  not  interest 
his  parents.  If  he  told  them,  they  would  think  that 
his  good  marks  had  been  merely  a  fluke,  and  they 
would  pick  on  him  and  discourage  him  by  telling  him 
that  he  was  on  a  course  which  led  straight  to  disas- 
ter. Yet,  by  not  mentioning  it,  he  was  giving  them  the 
impression  that  he  had  turned  over  the  new  leaf,  and 
was  becoming  the  sort  of  man  they  wanted  him  to  be. 
And  he  was  not  willing  that  they  should  think  this. 

So  he  let  them  think  what  they  pleased,  and  said 
nothing  of  his  new  scale  of  values.  He  had  responsi- 
bility enough  to  himself,  now,  without  reviving  the  old 
responsibility  to  his  parents. 

The  parlor,  with  its  spasms  of  sour  color,  its  seedy 
and  incongruous  furniture,  its  frenzied  atmosphere  of 
deaf  and  dumb  and  blind  perversity,  reached  him  as  a 
vague  feeling  of  hopelessness.  It  sat  prim  and  secure 
in  its  fussy  draperies,  defying  thought  and  inspiration 
and  joy,  praying  God  that  nothing  would  ever  happen. 

But  it  meant  something  different  to  Amos  Enday, 
whose  first  ideas  of  life  were  connected  with  it.  He 
had  played  in  that  parlor;  he  had  discovered  his  earliest 
reactions  from  its  rubber-plant,  its  sprawling  piano;  he 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMCS  283 

had  wept  for  the  lonely  and  lovely  girl  in  the  engraving 
between  its  windows;  he  had  started  out  with  it  as  an 
inspiration  and  as  a  guide. 

The  rest  of  the  town  was  just  as  discouraging.  Wil- 
son's barn,  the  cross-lots  path  to  school,  the  Mill  and 
the  shipping  room,  the  horse-car  yard,  the  street  on 
which  Burton  had  lived,  Belle's  house — Oh,  if  Belle 
had  only  lived,  how  different  life  might  have  been!  If 
only  ...  if  only  the  past  were  here  now,  or  the  future 
had  come,  or  he  were  somewhere  else! 

He  counted  the  days  till  school  should  come  again. 
In  desperation,  he  went  out  to  Shrewsbury,  and  called 
on  Constance. 

She  was  glad  to  hear  about  the  Track  Team. 

"  Oh,  I'd  just  die  of  joy  if  you  should  make  it!  " 
she  cried.  "Don't  you  get  a  letter  for  it,  or  some- 
thing? " 

"  A  ribbon  for  your  hat,"  Amos  told  her. 

"  Jinks!    I  think  it's  just  the  corkingest  honor!  " 

"  Well,  it  is  something,"  he  admitted.  "  You  see,  I 
never  did  any  running  before,  hardly.  But,  Gee,  it's 
nothing  like  what  a  runner  in  college  is!  " 

"Oh,"  said  Constance,  soberly.  "Are  you  really 
going  to  college?  " 

"  I  guess  so.  I  haven't  decided  yet.  Well,  really, 
it's  my  father  that  hasn't  decided  yet." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  have  to  go  to  college  for." 

"  It'll  give  me  more  time  to  think  things  over." 

"  Seems  to  me  you  want  a  lot  of  tune  to  think  things 


284  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

over.  I  should  think  you'd  rather  start  in  and  do  some- 
thing, as  soon  as  you  can." 

"  What  does  a  girl  know  about  that  sort  of  thing, 
Constance?  " 

"  Well,  I  thought  you  were  going  into  the  Mill." 

"  Gee,  why  should  I?  " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  just  awfully  foolish  to  miss  that 
dandy  chance.  I  know  just  crowds  of  boys  in  college, 
and  they  just  waste  a  lot  of  time,  and  come  back  and 
start  in  just  where  they'd  be  if  they  hadn't  been  at  all." 

"  Well,  their  mistake  is  in  coming  back  and  starting 
in.  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much 
I  don't  want  to!  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do,  then?  " 

"  Well  .  .  .  something  else." 

"  But  what?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Amos  said.  "  Be  a  poet,  maybe," 
he  added.  He  spoke  humorously,  smiling,  but  it  was 
a  pathetic  utterance,  none  the  less. 

"You're  such  a  dear!  "  Constance  exclaimed. 

"  I  don't  mean  be  a  poet,  of  course.  I  meant  some- 
thing serious.  I  mean,  I'd  want  to  take  it  up  seriously." 

"Would  you  go  and  live  in  Italy,  like  Browning 
did?  "  asked  Constance,  wickedly. 

"  Maybe  I  would.  Oh,  Gee  ...  I  don't  know  what 
it  is!  But  there's  something,  somewhere,  for  me  to  do! 
There's  something  I  want  and  love  and  need — that's 
what  I'm  looking  for." 

"I  guess  you'll  find  it,  if  you  keep  on  looking," 
Constance  said. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  285 

"  Oh,  don't  you  see?  If  I'm  just  like  other  people, 
then  I  wouldn't  keep  wanting  to  find  something  dif- 
ferent, all  the  time.  And  if  I'm  not  like  other  people, 
then  there's  no  sense  in  my  trying  to  do  the  same 
things  that  other  people  do.  I'm  sick  of  pretending 
and  compromising  and  trying  to  do  both  things  at 
once.  I  haven't  got  any  time  to  just  mess  around  with 
stupidity!  " 

"  I  don't  think  you're  different  from  everybody  else," 
Constance  said.  "  I  think  you're  fine." 

"  Then  what  am  I  thinking  these  things  for?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know!  People  are  satisfied,  when 
they're  in  the  right  places,  where  they  belong!  I'm 
not  satisfied!  " 

"Oh,  Jinks!"  Constance  retorted.  "Everybody 
thinks  they're  different!  I  wanted  to  be  an  opera 
singer,  when  I  was  a  little  girl!  " 

"  Lord !  "  Amos  thought,  on  his  way  home.  "  Per- 
haps there's  something  in  that!  " 

During  the  winter  term,  things  began  to  improve. 
Amos  worked  hard  at  his  studies,  and  his  running  was 
beginning  to  cause  comment  in  the  school,  so  that  he 
came  into  public  notice,  in  a  small  way.  This  was  new 
to  him,  and  he  enjoyed  it. 

At  times,  of  course,  he  sat  before  the  fire  in  the  Study, 
dreaming  over  his  book  and  wondering  what  was  going 
to  happen;  often  he  stood  at  his  window,  looking  down 
at  the  twinkling  lights  in  the  village,  pondering  on  the 
possible  end  of  all  this  uncertainty  and  bewilderment. 


286  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

But  he  couldn't  solve  the  problem,  not  knowing,  really, 
what  it  was.  And  he  was  too  busy  to  be  despondent. 

The  big  Track  Meet  came  in  the  Spring,  just  before 
the  Easter  Holidays.  He  was  chosen  as  one  of  the  mile 
runners  to  defend  the  reputation  of  Sheridan  against 
its  rival  school.  He  wrote  to  Constance  of  this,  and 
casually  mentioned  it  in  his  letters  to  his  father. 

As  the  Meet  drew  nearer,  he  was  looked  up  to  and 
idolized  by  the  younger  boys,  and  he  used  often  to  hear 
them  whispering  together  after  he  had  passed.  His 
teachers  took  an  interest  in  him,  and  excused  him  from 
a  portion  of  his  work,  and  accorded  him  several  minor 
privileges  which  were  by  custom  granted  to  members 
of  the  teams.  This  was  pleasant,  and  gave  him  confi- 
dence. 

Almost  every  one — or  at  least  every  one  who 
amounted  to  anything  in  the  school — had  invited  some 
girl,  and  her  mother,  to  come  up  for  the  Meet.  Amos 
considered  this  for  a  long  time.  He  knew  that  his 
mother  would  think  it  "  lovely  "  if  he  should  ask  Con- 
stance, and  would  be  delighted  to  grant  him  a  special 
appropriation  for  the  purpose.  But  if  he  did  that 
.  .  .  well,  perhaps  it  was  as  well  to  leave  Constance 
out  of  it. 

Constance  herself  had  taken  the  greatest  inteiest  in 
the  Meet,  and  would  be  pleased,  no  doubt,  to  come. 
But  if  he  asked  her  .  .  .  well,  perhaps  it  would  not 
be  discreet.  He  explained  to  her  in  a  letter  that  mem- 
bers of  the  teams  were  not  allowed  to  bring  girls  to 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  287 

Meets;  this  was  not  true,  but  he  hoped  she  would  be- 
lieve it. 

Then,  as  a  climax,  Aunt  Edna  wrote  to  ask  if  it 
could  be  arranged  to  have  her  come.  She  had  always 
wanted  to  see  some  athletic  event,  and  had  never  had 
a  chance  till  now.  She  had  hung  around  the  fence  of 
the  base-ball  park  at  home,  at  times,  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  something,  but  she  had  never  dared  to  go  in, 
with  all  those  men  yelling — and  it  was  so  expensive, 
too — and  she  had  never  seen  anything.  If  Amos  could 
manage  to  get  her  up  to  Sheridan,  she  would  wear  her 
best  clothes,  so  that  he  needn't  be  ashamed  of  her,  and 
she  promised  to  go  home  immediately  afterwards,  so 
as  not  to  take  his  time  from  his  friends. 

Amos  wasted  ten  sheets  of  paper  in  diplomatic  at- 
tempts, and  in  the  end  flatly  refused  to  consider  the 
request. 

Phanor  and  Isabel  saw  how  he  felt  about  it;  they 
themselves  wouldn't  have  wanted  Aunt  Edna  hanging 
around,  Sunday  clothes  or  not;  but  they  didn't  like  the 
cockey  way  in  which  Amos  took  it  upon  himself  to 
humiliate  his  relatives,  who  were  just  as  good  as  he  was. 

The  day  of  the  Meet  dawned  clear  and  brilliant,  a 
perfection  of  Spring  weather  that  no  one  could  resist. 
Amos  was  about  to  start,  he  thought,  the  definite  indi- 
vidual career  he  had  so  long  hoped  for.  This,  and  the 
serenity  of  the  air,  had  its  effect  on  him,  and  he  came  to 
the  line  in  a  glow  of  enthusiasm. 

As  he  looked  up  at  the  gay  stands  of  bright  dresses 


288  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

and  fluttering  pennants,  while  he  dug  his  spikes  into 
the  track,  he  wished  there  was  some  special  Person 
there  for  him,  some  one  for  whom  he  could  do  his 
best. 

Harvey  beat  him  in  the  mile,  by  a  considerable  mar- 
gin, but  Amos  was  second,  and  thus  won  the  first  two 
places  for  Sheridan;  Harvey's  victory  was  looked  upon 
as  certain,  and  Amos  was  the  real  hero  of  the  day.  He 
heard  a  wild  burst  of  applause  when  he  finished,  and 
was  thrilled  by  the  sound  of  his  own  name  at  the  end 
of  the  school  cheer. 

This  was  the  last  day  of  the  winter  term;  directly 
after  the  Meet,  Amos  went  home  to  Wilton  for  his 
vacation. 

"Well,  boy,  I've  got  some  good  news  for  you," 
Phanor  said. 

He  was  sitting  there,  where  he  always  sat,  hunched 
down  in  his  chair,  with  his  paper  in  his  lap. 

"  That's  fine,"  Amos  said.  He  was  wondering  if  the 
news  were  good  in  Phanor's  estimation  only. 

"  There's  an  opening  in  the  Mill,"  said  Phanor,  and 
paused  for  the  effect. 

Amos'  heart  sank,  but  he  crossed  the  room  to  a  chair, 
and  tried  to  conceal  his  feelings. 

"  What  sort  of  an  opening?  "  he  asked. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  call  it  an  opening, 
exactly,"  Phanor  went  on.  "  It's  no  more  than  a  sug- 
gestion, really.  But  I  happened  to  hear  that  there 
might  be  a  vacancy  soon,  and  I  made  a  bid  for  you. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  289 

Nothing  may  come  of  it,  of  course.  But  I  thought  I'd 
speak  of  it." 

Amos  looked  over  at  his  mother,  hoping,  perhaps, 
for  some  help,  but  she  was  watching  him,  smiling  hap- 
pily, waiting  to  see  his  delight  and  gratitude.  He  felt 
trapped;  they  had  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  him; 
he  had  come  home,  naturally  enough,  for  his  vacation, 
and  they  pounced  on  him  with  this,  and  expected  him 
to  be  pleased. 

"  Is  it  all  settled?  "  he  asked,  faintly. 

"  Well,  I  can't  definitely  say  that,"  Phanor  said. 
"  I  merely  suggested  that  you  were  coming  along  soon, 
now,  and  that  you'd  have  to  find  something,  so  I  told 
them  to  try  and  sort  of  hold  things  open  for  you  until 
you  could  get  out  of  school  and  take  advantage  of  it." 

"  What  kind  of  job  is  it?  " 

"  Why,  Hungerford  wants  a  new  man.  Just  re- 
cently, they've  decided  to  let  him  take  over  the  man- 
agement of  the  West  Mill,  in  addition  to  what  he's 
doing  already,  and  he'll  need  somebody  to  help  him  and 
sort  of  look  after  things  a  little.  Of  course,  it's  just  a 
start;  no  more." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  You  don't  seem  very  enthusiastic  about  it.  What's 
the  matter?  It's  way  higher  up  in  the  scale  than  I 
started  in." 

"  Why,  I  can't  get  used  to  the  idea,  that's  all.  I've 
been  thinking  .  .  ." 

"  I  think  it's  perfectly  lovely!  "  Isabel  exclaimed. 


290  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

u  Wasn't  that  the  same  place  that  Mr.  Hungerford 
started  in,  Phanor?  " 

Phanor  nodded. 

"Just  think!  "  said  Isabel. 

Phanor  evidently  thought  that  something  was  wrong, 
and  began  to  speak,  rapidly,  to  cover  his  apprehension. 

"  Why,  Hungerford  was  in  to  see  me  the  other  day, 
and  he  said  they  were  going  to  give  him  the  West  Mill 
to  look  after,  too,  and  I  said  that  was  fine,  and  he  said 
he  thought  he'd  have  to  get  another  man  to  help  him, 
and  I  thought  of  you,  of  course.  And  I  said,  '  Who 
have  you  got  in  mind?  '  and  he  said  that  the  man  that 
was  in  the  West  Mill  now  was  a  good  enough  foreman, 
but  that  he'd  been  promoted  from  the  machines  and 
didn't  have  much  education.  I  know  the  man;  name's 
Tony,  and  he  don't  speak  hardly  any  English.  I  asked 
Hungerford  if  he  had  anybody  in  mind,  and  he  said 
he  didn't  know  of  anybody,  and  then  I  told  him  I  had 
you  coming  along  out  of  school  pretty  soon,  and  he 
said  it  might  not  be  a  bad  idea.  So  the  matter  rested 
there.  If  he  don't  find  anybody  before  June  why  he'll 
be  willing  to  take  you  in  and  see  what  he  can  make  of 
you." 

"  Isn't  that  fine!  "  Isabel  said. 

She  was  still  sitting  there  watching  him,  her  eyes 
shining,  her  face  lighted  up  in  expectation  of  his  de- 
light. Oh,  it  was  pitiful  to  hurt  her!  Amos  could  have 
wept. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  and  hesitating  between  the 
words,  "  I'd  just  like  a  little  time  to  think  it  over." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  291 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  Phanor  asked. 

"  Why,  I  mean  .  .  .  it's  all  so  ...  I  didn't  expect 
it,  that's  all." 

"  Well,  there's  time  enough,  between  now  and  June. 
But  if  you  want  the  place  you  can't  afford  to  let  the 
grass  grow  under  your  feet,  that's  sure." 

Amos  gathered  all  his  courage,  and  said,  "  I  don't 
think  I  want  it." 

There  was  silence,  for  a  moment.  Phanor  opened 
his  mouth,  and  could  not  shut  it  again;  a  weak,  "  Why, 
Amos!  "  burst  from  Isabel. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  gasped  Phanor. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  in  with  Mr.  Hungerford,  that's 
all." 

"  You  don't  want  .   .   .  you  don't  .   .   .  Crickey!  " 

Phanor  sank  back  in  his  chair;  it  was  as  if  the  end 
of  the  world  had  been  announced. 

"  See  here,  young  man  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  I  don't.  What  are  you  making  such  a  fuss 
about?  Aren't  there  other  .  .  ." 

"  Stop  your  noise!  "  Phanor  cried.  "  What  the  devil 
do  you  mean  by  telling  me  a  thing  like  that?  Hey? 
What  do  you  mean  by  it?  " 

"I  don't  want  to  go  into  the  Mill!"  Amos 
answered.  "  I'm  sorry,  but  I  don't.  I  don't  like  it, 
and  I  never  did,  and  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with 
it.  For  all  of  me  your  old  Mill  can  sink!  " 

"  Why,  what  a  way  to  talk!  "  said  Isabel. 

"Well,  that's  gratitude,  I  must  say!"  exclaimed 
Phanor. 


292  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Hungerford  for  thinking 
of  me,  and  I  hope  you'll  tell  him  so." 

"Hungerford!  "  Phanor  shouted.  "What  in  Hell 
has  Hungerford  got  to  do  with  it?  Answer  me  that!  " 

"  Why,  you  said  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  said!  Great  God  Almighty!  Don't  you  see 
where  your  advantage  lies?  " 

"  Does  it  lie  in  taking  a  job  I  don't  want  and  don't 
like  and  never  did  like  and  never  will  like?  Why  have 
I  got  to  go  into  the  Mill,  if  I  don't  want  to?  " 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  ambition,  for  God's  sake?  " 

"Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  about  ambition!  You  can't 
see  anything  in  the  whole  world  but  your  old  Mill! 
What  do  I  care  for  the  Mill,  I'd  like  to  know !  I  don't 
want  it;  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Let's  not  talk  about 
it  any  more." 

"  No!  "  shouted  Phanor.  "  This  thing  has  got  to  be 
thrashed  out  here  and  now!  " 

"  Oh,  all  right  then!  All  right!  Ever  since  I  was  a 
baby  you've  told  me  the  things  I  cared  for  were  trash 
and  nonsense;  whenever  I've  found  something  I  really 
liked  you've  done  your  best  to  spoil  it  for  me;  I  never 
made  a  step  for  myself  without  getting  called  a  scoun- 
drel and  a  blackguard  and  a  good-for-nothing.  You've 
always  been  preaching  to  me  about  being  a  failure — 
Watch  out  for  this,  and  watch  out  for  that!  Well,  I 
think  I'd  be  a  failure  if  I  ever  went  near  the  Mill. 
That's  that." 

Isabel  felt  some  justice  in  this;  she  looked  over  at 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  293 

Phanor  as  if  to  say,  "  Now,  what  have  you  got  to  say 
for  yourself?  " 

But  Phanor  jumped  up,  glaring,  and  advanced  on 
Amos. 

"  By  God!  "  he  shouted.  "  You'll  talk  that  way  to 
me,  will  you?  After  all  I've  done,  you  turn  around 
and  talk  that  way  to  me!  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Amos  said.  "  And  I  don't  mean  to  be 
disrespectful.  You  can  beat  me,  if  you  want  to,  and  I 
won't  hit  back.  But  I  don't  want  to  work  in  the  Mill, 
and  I  won't  do  it,  if  you  break  every  bone  in  my  body." 

"  Oh,  Amos,  to  think  that  you'd  speak  that  way  to 
your  dear,  kind  father!  "  Isabel  said. 

"  I'm  going  out  to  Shrewsbury  to  see  Constance," 
said  Amos,  suddenly  starting  for  the  door. 

"  And  what  will  Constance  say  to  this,  I'd  like  to 
know?  " 

That  was  true;  what  would  she  say?  Oh,  they  had 
him  cornered!  There  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could 

go- 
Where  were  his  people?    The  people  who  were  wait- 
ing for  him,  somewhere,  wondering  why  he  did  not 
come?    He  needed  them  so  desperately. 

The  subject  of  the  place  in  the  Mill  was  not  brought 
up  again  while  Amos  was  at  home.  Phanor  moped 
about  the  house,  saying  little,  staring  at  the  wall,  rat- 
tling his  paper  in  his  lap  as  he  sat  trying  to  read  in  the 
evening.  Everything  seemed  to  have  gone  wrong. 


294  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

When  Amos  left  to  go  back  to  school,  Isabel  said  to 
him,  "  I  want  you  to  think  over  what's  been  said,  my 
son,  and  see  if  you  think  it's  kind  and  considerate  to 
act  as  you've  acted." 

This  was  the  final  speech,  the  outcome  of  long  dis- 
cussions that  Phanor  and  Isabel  had  carried  on  when- 
ever Amos'  back  was  turned;  just  as  they  thought  that 
he  was  refusing  to  go  into  the  Mill  because  it  was  they 
who  asked  it,  so  they  thought  he  might  be  won  back 
from  his  decision  by  an  appeal  to  kindness. 

He  had  expected  to  feel  relieved  and  happy  when  he 
once  more  walked  the  streets  of  Lakewood,  rejoicing 
in  his  freedom,  making  his  own  life,  at  last;  instead,  he 
was  gloomy  and  miserable — he  had  hurt  his  parents' 
feelings,  and  made  them  unhappy,  after  all  they  had 
done  for  him;  he  had  been  offered  the  life  that  God 
intended  for  him,  and  he  had  said  that  he  did  not  want 
it;  his  chance  had  come,  and  he  had  refused  to  con- 
sider it. 

"  It's  all  over  with  me  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
he  went  plodding  wearily  up  the  hill  to  school. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AT  the  school  gates  he  met  a  lady,  who  smiled  and 
bowed  to  him  as  he  passed;  he  raised  his  hat 
to  her  in  an  absent  manner,  but  he  did  not  know  who 
she  was. 

"  Hello,  Enday!  "  said  Robertson,  who  was  seated 
with  some  other  boys  on  the  steps.  "  Did  she  speak  to 
you?  " 

"  Hello,"  said  Amos,  gloomily.     "  Who  was  she?  " 

"  That's  Miss  Harmon,  you  Chinaman.  She's  just 
been  in  to  see  old  B.  F.  and  she's  going  to  give  a  party 
for  the  Track  Team,  because  we  won  the  Meet.  Didn't 
she  say  anything  about  it?  " 

"  No,"  said  Amos.    "  She  doesn't  know  me." 

"  Well,  she  saw  your  ribbon.  It's  going  to  be  a  great 
party;  she's  an  old  friend  of  old  B.  F's." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  I  won't  go." 

"  Why  not,  you  crazy?    She  wants  you  to." 

"  I  don't  feel  well,"  Amos  said.  "  When  is  her  old 
party?  " 

"  To-morrow  afternoon." 

Amos  went  to  his  room,  flung  down  his  suitcase,  and 
stood  at  the  window,  looking  out.  Far  down  the  road 
he  could  see  Miss  Harmon,  walking  towards  the  village. 

"  Oh,  Lord!  "  he  groaned.  "  It's  coming  at  just  the 

295 


296  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

worst  time!  Dress  all  up  and  stew  around  with  a  lot 
of  society  people!  I  wish  they'd  let  me  alone." 

He  looked  about  him  at  the  familiar  things  of  his 
den.  Here  he  had  thought  himself  safe  and  free,  out 
of  the  reach  of  trouble.  But  for  how  long?  Till  June. 
Then  he  would  have  to  go  out  into  the  world,  which  had 
offered  him  his  chance.  He  had  refused  it.  That  was 
trouble  enough.  And  now,  this  party!  He  was  asked 
to  see  a  crowd  of  people  whom  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore and  would  never  see  again;  they  would  hear  that 
he  had  thrown  away  his  chance,  and  they  would  laugh 
at  him.  What  an  incredible  fool  he  had  been! 

He  went  out  by  the  rear  door,  in  order  to  avoid  his 
comrades,  and  stumbled  along  down  to  the  boat-house. 
He  took  a  boat,  to  be  alone  with  his  misery,  and  rowed 
out  across  the  lake. 

They  had  offered  him  his  chance.  "Here's  your 
start  in  life,"  they  had  said.  "Here's  your  success. 
You  want  a  place  in  the  world,  don't  you?  And  a 
happy  and  comfortable  home,  and  some  measure  of 
ease,  and  safety  and  freedom  from  worry  for  the  rest 
of  your  life?  Well,  here  it  is."  And  he — poor  blind 
idiot — had  answered,  "  Thanks  very  much,  but  I  don't 
care  for  it."  It  was  pitiful,  and  comic!  If  you  wanted 
to  see  something  ridiculous,  take  a  look  at  Amos 
Enday!  Hadn't  he  known,  perfectly  well,  that  oppor- 
tunity comes  but  once? 

He  gave  a  savage  pull  at  his  oars,  shipped  them,  and 
let  his  boat  drift  noiselessly  in  among  the  rushes  in  a 
little  inlet  in  the  wooded  shore.  He  came  gliding  in, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  297 

spreading  ripples.    The  bow  stopped  in  the  soft  sand. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  there  on  the  bank,  looking 
up  at  him  in  surprise  from  a  book  which  she  was  hold- 
ing in  her  lap,  was  a  girl. 

He  had  never  seen  her  before,  yet  she  was  a  friend. 
In  a  flash  of  instant  recognition  he  knew  her.  She 
was  one  of  his  people.  She  was  all  he  had  ever  hoped 
for.  There  she  was. 

Her  hair  was  black,  under  a  broad-brimmed  hat, 
and  her  eyes  were  blue — a  soft  and  tender  blue,  he 
thought.  Her  eyes  were  so  frank,  and  her  face  so 
friendly!  She  wore  a  dark  dress  with  a  V  neck,  and 
a  broad  white  tie.  She  held  her  book  in  her  small 
brown  hands  and  looked  out  at  him,  over  the  tops  of 
the  trembling  rushes.  There  was  an  alert  look  about 
her,  showing  clearly  through  her  beauty,  a  keen,  quest- 
ing, understanding  look,  that  seemed  to  put  a  spell  on 
Amos,  though  he  had  never  seen  anything  like  it,  in  all 
his  life,  and  moved  him  to  declare  himself. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at 
her.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

"  How  should  you  know?  "  she  said. 

"  Why,  it  seems  to  me  I  should  have,"  he  answered, 
smiling  at  her. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  should,  after  all." 

Had  she  said  that?  Was  it  possible?  And  could 
any  human  girl  have  a  voice  so  sweet? 

"  You're  sure  I'm  not  interrupting  you?  " 

"No,"  she  answered.  "Truly."  And  she  closed 
her  book. 


298  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  My  name  is  Enday.    I'm  up  at  school." 

She  nodded.  "  I  saw  you,  at  the  Meet,"  she  said. 
"  You  had  a  number  six  on  your  back,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes."    He  looked  up  at  her  expectantly. 

"  My  name  is  Harmon;  Joan  Harmon." 

"  That's  just  like  you,  that  name;  you  couldn't  be 
named  anything  else,  if  you  tried.  Oh,  then  the  lady 
I  met  was  your  mother?  " 

"  No;  my  aunt.  My  mother's  not  here.  Where  did 
you  meet  her?  " 

"  I  just  passed  her  at  the  gates  of  school;  she  was 
coming  out." 

"  Oh.  She  went  up  to  see  Dr.  Kimber — I  mean,  old 
B.  F.  She's  a  friend  of  his,  and  she's  going  to  give  a 
party  for  the  Track  Team  to-morrow,  to  celebrate." 

"  Yes,  somebody  told  me  that;  Robby,  I  guess  it 
was.  Where's  the  celebration  going  to  be?  " 

"  At  her  house."  She  hesitated  slightly,  and  then 
added,  "  At  home." 

"  Oh!  "  Amos  exclaimed.  "  And  I  was  just  saying  I 
didn't  want  to  go!  I  thought  I  wouldn't  know  any- 
body there!  " 

"  Why,  all  your  friends  will  be  there." 

"  Yes;  I  know  that  now.  But  I  didn't,  five  minutes 
ago." 

"  I  must  go  home,"  she  said  suddenly,  getting  up. 

"  Isn't  it  strange?  "  he  said.  "  I  came  out  on  the 
lake  because  I  was  unhappy,  and  I  didn't  want  to  see 
anybody.  And  now — why,  I  might  have  known  I 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  299 

couldn't  be  unhappy  for  very  long,  if  only  I'd  look 
around  a  little." 

He  looked  up  at  her  as  she  stood  with  the  woods  at 
her  back,  the  soft  light  from  the  water  reflected  up  on 
her  face.  He  wanted  to  say  something  to  keep  her,  but 
he  could  find  no  words. 

"  Then  I  shall  see  you  at  Miss  Harmon's?  " 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  she  said  politely.  "  Good- 
by." 

She  moved  away  among  the  trees,  and  Amos  let  her 
go  several  steps  before  he  could  speak. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said. 

She  turned  back  for  a  second. 

He  had  a  glimpse  of  her  white  tie  through  the  twi- 
light of  the  woods,  and  then  she  was  gone. 

He  rowed  back  as  hard  as  he  could  pull;  the  water 
roared  about  his  boat.  Oh,  but  she  was  wonderful! 
Life  was  wonderful!  The  whole  world  was  different; 
see  how  the  sun  shone! 

He  climbed  out  on  the  float,  and  looked  back  towards 
the  other  shore.  It  was  barely  recognizable;  he  would 
not  have  known  that  he  had  ever  seen  it  before. 

He  had  forgotten  to  tie  up  his  boat,  and  it  went 
slowly  drifting  away;  he  threw  himself  recklessly  into 
another,  and  went  in  pursuit  of  it. 

He  ran  up  the  hill  to  school,  and  found  Robertson 
still  sitting  stolidly  on  the  steps,  just  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 

"  Feeling  better,  aren't  you?  "  Robertson  said. 


300  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Amos  went  to  the  party  with  Harvey.  As  they  came 
up  the  path  they  heard  the  patter  of  conversation 
within,  and  saw  Miss  Harmon  presiding  at  her  tea- 
table,  with  the  girls  whom  she  had  invited  to  help  her 
entertain  the  Track  Team. 

As  the  two  came  in,  Miss  Harmon  saw  them;  the 
boys,  following  her  glance  and  smile  of  welcome,  burst 
out  into  the  school  cheer,  putting  Harvey's  name  at  the 
end,  and  then  repeating  it  for  Amos. 

They  stood  quiet,  embarrassed  at  this  reception; 
Amos'  eyes  were  seeking  Joan,  seeing  nothing  else,  car- 
ing for  nothing  else. 

She  came  forward  to  meet  him,  took  his  hand  for 
a  second,  and  brought  him  up  to  be  presented  to  her 
aunt.  Miss  Harmon  was  gracious  and  pleasant;  every 
one  was  gracious  and  pleasant.  All  the  best  people  in 
the  world,  it  seemed,  were  gathered  in  that  one  room. 
And  it  was  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  that  he  had 
been  accusing  himself  of  stupidity,  saying  that  he  was 
lost,  that  he  had  given  up  his  golden  opportunity! 

"  I'm  afraid  I  was  rude  yesterday,"  he  told  Joan. 
He  didn't  think  so  at  all,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  say 
something  personal,  something  to  make  her  remember 
that  they  had  met  before,  and  would  prevent  her  from 
drifting  away  among  the  others. 

"  Why?  "  she  said.  "  That  wasn't  a  private  place  of 
my  own,  you  know." 

"  I  was  afraid  it  was,"  he  answered.  "  I  just  came 
blundering  in,  without  asking.  But  I  was  unhappy, 
and  I  didn't  really  see  where  I  was  going." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  301 

"  You  didn't  seem  unhappy." 

"  Well,  I  saw  you  before  you  saw  me,  and  so  ... 
You  see,  I'd  just  come  from  home,  and  I  hadn't  had 
time,  yet,  to  be  glad  I  was  back  at  school." 

"  And  you  were  thinking  that  you'd  have  to  be  going 
back  home  sometime?  Was  that  it?  " 

Almost  it  seemed  as  if  Joan  knew  Phanor  and  Isabel. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  My  father  and  mother  are  in  such 
a  frightful  rush  to  get  me  out  into  the  world,  and  get 
me  started.  I  want  to  go,  too,  but  not  exactly  the  way 
they've  decided  on." 

"  What  way  is  that?  " 

"  Their  way,  you  mean?  To  get  a  common  every- 
day job,  and  be  successful  at  it,  and  settle  down.  '  The 
Approbation  of  One's  Fellows,'  is  what  my  father  calls 
it." 

"How  horrid!  I  know.  You  wish  they  were  all 
sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  yet  you  don't 
really  wish  that  at  all." 

"  Yes;  you  don't  want  to  hurt  their  feelings.  If  you 
didn't  care  about  them,  it  would  be  all  right.  They 
keep  saying,  '  Now,  then,  boy;  show  some  ambition!  ' 
and  all  the  time  they're  standing  in  the  background, 
ready  to  cry  if  you  give  so  much  as  a  chirp." 

Miss  Harmon  called  to  Joan. 

"  Oh,  excuse  me  just  a  moment,"  she  said,  and  left 
him. 

She  had  implied  that  she  would  come  back;  this 
made  endurable  the  next  ten  minutes,  while  he  was 
talking  with  another  girl.  Young  Duncan  strolled  up 


302  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

and  joined  them;  Amos  was  in  a  panic  of  fear  that  he 
was  caught  in  a  trap,  and  would  never  get  away  again. 
Then  he  heard  Miss  Harmon  calling  his  name,  and 
turned  to  see  her  beckoning  to  him,  with  Joan  beside 
her. 

"  It's  too  bad  you're  new  to  Sheridan,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  sure  we  should  have  seen  you  here  before,  if 
you'd  been  in  school  all  the  four  years." 

"  I'm  sure  you  would  have,"  Amos  said.  "  If  I'd  had 
any  luck." 

"  I've  known  Doctor  Kimber  for  a  great  many  years 
— almost  too  many  to  confess,"  Miss  Harmon  said. 
"  And  I  feel  as  if  all  the  boys  in  the  school  were  my 
personal  property." 

"  That's  the  way  I  feel  about  it,  myself,"  Amos  said. 
"I  wish  you'd  let  me  come  down  to  ...  to  call." 

"  I'd  be  delighted  to  have  you  come." 

"Yes;  do,"  said  Joan. 

"  If  I  knew  when  you'd  be  at  home,"  he  said,  turning 
to  her. 

"  Why,  come  in  for  tea.    I'm  always  here  then." 

"  Well,  then  you'll  be  here  to-morrow,  won't  you?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  I'll  be  here  myself,"  Amos  said. 

In  the  bewildering  weeks  that  followed,  Amos  saw 
life  first  from  one  side,  then  from  another;  he  loved 
Joan,  for  herself;  then  he  loved  all  that  she  repre- 
sented. 

He  watched  her  as  she  poured  the  tea,  or  talked,  or 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  303 

walked  beside  him  down  a  country  road,  or  turned  the 
leaves  of  a  book  from  which  she  was  reading  aloud — 
it  was  fascinating  to  watch  her  do  anything  and  every- 
thing. In  those  slender  brown  hands  of  hers  she  held 
the  reins  of  days  and  years,  making  life  go  straight 
forward  along  the  road  she  had  marked  out  for  it;  yet 
it  was  the  road  along  which  life  seemed  miraculously 
to  want  to  go. 

She  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  when  she  was  three 
years  old,  for  she  had  been  born  in  England.  Did  that 
explain  something?  He  knew  that  this  could  not  be 
true;  there  must  be  stupid  people  in  England,  as  every- 
where else.  No,  it  was  Joan  herself  who  was  so  won- 
derful. 

Perhaps  the  secret  lay  with  her  parents.  Her  mother, 
it  seemed,  was  lovely  .  .  . 

"  She  would  be,"  Amos  said. 

Her  father  must  be  a  great  author  or  statesman  or 
musician;  only  so  could  he  have  given  his  daughter  so 
clear  and  vivid  a  vision  of  life. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  told  him,  laughing.  "  He  sells  teavy 
machinery,  for  an  American  firm  in  London." 

This  was  another  marvel.  Could  a  man  just  be  in 
ordinary  business,  and  still  be  real?  Could  a  man  live 
all  his  life,  so  to  speak,  hand  in  hand  with  heavy  ma- 
chinery, and  not  be  blinded  and  deafened  to  the  mean- 
ing of  the  world?  Was  it,  after  all,  true  that  it  was  who 
a  man  is  that  matters,  and  not  what  he  does? 

And  there  Joan  sat,  reading  from  some  book  she 
loved;  he  watched  her  lips,  marveling  that  any  voice 


304  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

could  be  so  sweet,  waiting  for  her  to  lift  her  eyes  to  ask 
him  if  he  did  not  love  it  too.  England,  her  lovely 
mother,  her  father  who  was  so  wonderful,  her  gracious 
aunt,  this  house  at  Lakewood,  the  books  ...  it  was 
all  clear,  yet  still  a  miracle.  Had  this  made  Joan,  or 
was  it  Joan  who  had  made  this?  Had  she  come  from 
the  Eternal  Spirit,  or  was  she  herself  the  Spirit?  Oh, 
but  to  put  it  simply,  he  loved  her. 

Then,  at  times,  it  was  the  world  around  her  that  he 
loved.  He  had  known  this  world  to  exist,  and  that 
there  were  these  people  in  it;  all  his  life  he  had  been 
hoping  to  find  them.  His  own  hopes  and  dreams  and 
crying  needs  were  confirmed  by  this  world,  and 
strengthened.  Joan  taught  him  that  it  was  not  neces- 
sary to  give  up  anything. 

"  Oh,  if  I'd  only  known  that  life  was  like  this!  "  he 
said  to  her.  "  If  I'd  only  known!  " 

"  But  you  did  know." 

"Yes,  really,  I  did.  I  knew  it  all  the  time.  But, 
you  see,  I'd  never  met  a  single  solitary  person,  in  all 
my  life,  that  made  it  come  true.  I  knew  it  was  there, 
but  I  didn't  trust  my  own  sight,  all  alone;  and  I  didn't 
dare  go  out  to  look." 

"  It  takes  such  a  lot  of  courage  to  go  out  all  alone," 
Joan  said.  "You  have  to  turn  your  back  on  things 
that  are  sure,  and  go  ahead  without  seeing  a  single  step 
of  the  way.  You  get  to  thinking  that  you  only  hope 
these  things  are  so,  because  you  can't  see  them  from 
where  you  stand." 

"  Yes.    I  did  that     I  used  to  think,  '  If  this  is  true, 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  305 

then  somebody,  somewhere,  will  see  it,  and  tell  me  I'm 
right.'  Only,  I  never  found  anybody  like  that.  Not 
till  now." 

"  No  one  could  tell  you.  You've  got  to  see  it  for 
yourself." 

"  Somebody  did  tell  me,  though.  Somebody  with 
blue  eyes.  Oh,  I  suppose  you're  right;  I  must  have 
known  it,  all  along,  or  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  when 
you  told  me." 

Joan  nodded. 

"  Well,  it's  too  late  now,"  Amos  sighed. 

"  Oh,  that's  not  true.    It's  not  true  at  all." 

"  It  is,  though.  I've  spent  too  much  time  muddling 
around.  If  I  should  start  now,  I'd  fail." 

"  Oh,  you  poor  thing!  "  Joan  exclaimed.  "  They've 
convinced  you,  haven't  they?  Why,  the  only  possible 
way  to  '  fail '  is  not  to  start!  " 

"  I  guess  you're  forgetting  who  I  am,  and  where  I've 
come  from." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  she  said.  "  I'm  remembering. 
You're  you;  that's  all  that  matters." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that.  But  they  don't.  At  every 
step,  I'd  have  to  stop  and  ask  myself,  '  Good  Lord, 
boy;  what's  going  to  become  of  you?  '  And  as  soon 
as  that's  asked,  it's  got  to  be  answered,  and  to  say,  '  I 
don't  know  yet,'  isn't  any  answer." 

He  had  been  taught  to  fear  uncertainty,  and  expe- 
riment, and  failure.  His  parents  had  told  him  that  he 
must  make  up  his  mind  before  the  chance  came;  that 
there  was  danger  in  expecting  too  much  from  life;  that 


306  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

you  never  knew,  until  it  was  too  late.  Now  abideth 
these  three:  Uncertainty,  Experiment,  and  Failure. 
And  the  greatest  of  these  is  failure. 

"  It  wasn't  for  myself  I  was  afraid,"  he  told  Joan. 
"  I  couldn't  have  been  unhappier,  no  matter  what  hap- 
pened. I've  been  where  I  could  reach  up  and  touch 
bottom.  But  it  was  for  my  father  and  mother.  They 
were  the  ones  that  failure  would  hurt,  not  me." 

"  There's  always  somebody  to  hurt,"  Joan  said.  "  No 
matter  which  way  you  go." 

He  stood  at  the  window  of  his  room,  looking  out  down 
the  valley.  There  were  the  hills,  and  the  roofs  of  the 
houses  showing  through  the  tops  of  the  trees;  over 
there,  out  of  sight,  but  never,  never  out  of  mind,  was 
Wilton,  and  97  Elm  Street  was  there;  Phanor  would 
be  sitting  there,  with  his  paper  on  his  knees,  deep  in 
his  chair,  with  Isabel  across  the  table  from  him,  reading 
or  sewing.  They  were  thinking  of  him. 

He  imagined  himself  bursting  in  on  them. 

"  I'm  through  with  all  this,"  he  would  say. 

"  With  all  what?  "  they  would  ask.  They  would  be 
wondering  what  had  happened  to  steal  away  his  wits. 

"  With  all  this  nonsense  of  failing  or  succeeding,  of 
being  safe  or  being  alive,  with  home  and  the  Mill, 
and  " — Ah,  this  was  the  hard  part  of  it! — "  and  you." 

They  would  say  that  that  was  a  pretty  way  to  talk, 
and  ask  him  what  they  had  done  to  be  treated  so.  And 
what  would  he  find  to  say  to  that? 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  307 

"I'm  sorry."  That  was  all  that  could  be  said.  "I'm 
not  going  to  live  as  you've  planned  for  me." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  then?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  something  glorious." 

That  was  it;  they  would  keep  after  him  until  they 
made  him  make  some  definite  statement  of  his  own 
side  of  the  matter;  then  they  would  judge  it  as  if  it 
came  within  their  own  field  of  vision,  and  tell  him  that 
it  wouldn't  work.  They  would  laugh  at  him,  as  they 
did  when  he  wanted  to  go  to  Europe  with  Burton. 

He  thought  of  Burton.  Where  was  he  now?  Bur- 
ton had  tried  to  do  it;  he  had  tried  to  make  life  come 
true,  and  he  had  not  been  strong  enough.  Just  as  he 
was  on  his  highest  crest  of  hope,  adversity  had  touched 
him,  and  he  had  gone  down.  That  was  Burton's  case. 
Well,  in  his  own  case,  what  assurance  had  he  that  he 
would  not  fail,  too?  He  could  live  only  once. 

He  thought  of  Belle.  The  idea  of  her  was  distaste- 
ful to  him.  Try  as  he  would,  he  could  see  her  only  as 
he  saw  her  that  last  time.  But,  at  least,  Belle  had  gone 
her  own  road.  Whatever  it  was  she  wanted,  she  had 
been  brave  enough  to  start  for  it.  Well,  she  was  dead 
now,  and  she  knew  about  it  all. 

Brave  enough?  How  was  she  brave?  She  had  seen 
but  one  side  of  it;  there  was  no  such  thing,  for  her,  as 
danger.  She  had  been  prejudiced  and  biassed,  and 
she  had  never  been  called  upon  to  make  a  choice.  How 
grateful  she  ought  to  be  for  that! 

He  thought  of  Constance.    What  did  she  amount  to? 


3o3  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

What  had  she  to  give?  She  saw  only  one  side,  too. 
She  was  safe,  Constance  would  never  know  whether  the 
skies  fell  or  not. 

But  Joan  saw  both  sides.  Joan  was  brave.  No  one 
was  warning  her,  clutching  at  her  to  pull  her  back,  but, 
even  so,  she  knew  that  life  required  faith  and  courage. 
Joan  was  infinitely  precious;  she  was  the  most  pre- 
cious thing  that  life  had  produced. 

He  sat  wearily  down  at  his  desk  and  got  out  a  sheet 
of  letter  paper. 

MY  DEAR  FATHER: 

The  weather  has  been  wonderful,  these  last  few  days, 
and  I've  tried  to  get  outdoors  as  much  as  I  could.  I  haven't 
done  anything  in  athletics  since  the  Spring  Meet,  because 
I  can't  do  anything  but  the  mile,  and  there  isn't  time  to 
train  for  anything  else. 

This  morning  we  got  our  marks  in  the  Latin  Test  I  wrote 
you  about,  and  I  came  out  second,  and  Mr.  Wheeler  read 
my  paper  aloud  to  the  class  to  show  them  how  it  should  be 
done.  I  think  I  got  a  good  mark  in  History,  too,  but  we 
won't  find  out  about  that  for  a  day  or  two.  Everybody  is 
getting  ready  for  graduation. 

Miss  Harmon,  a  lady  in  Lakewood,  a  friend  of  Doctor 
Kimber's,  gave  a  party  a  week  or  so  ago,  for  the  Track 
Team,  and  I  went  down,  and  met  some  nice  people,  and  now 
I  spend  all  the  time  I  can  at  her  house. 

My  love  to  mother. 

Affectionately, 

AMOS. 

He  read  the  letter  over  before  putting  it  in  the  en- 
velope. He  had  set  a  cautious  train,  as  a  preliminary 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  309 

—that  remark  about  the  nice  people.  It  would  show 
his  father  how  matters  stood.  Of  course,  it  would 
make  his  father  uneasy,  but  he  might  as  well  have  it 
over  with. 

Sure  enough,  Phanor  wrote,  in  a  day  or  so,  to  say 
that  he  hoped  Amos'  social  activities  would  not  take 
too  much  of  his  time  away  from  his  studies. 

"  I'm  going  back  to  England  in  June,"  Joan  told 
him. 

At  first  he  was  thrilled.  That  she  could  so  calmly 
announce  such  a  thing!  Well,  so  could  he,  and  so 
could  any  one;  but  Joan  could  make  it  come  true. 

Then  he  began  to  realize  the  loss  to  himself. 

"  I'll  be  sorry  to  have  you  go,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  sorry,  too,  in  a  way.  But  I  haven't  been  back 
for  more  than  a  year,  and  Dad  wants  me  home  for  his 
vacation." 

"  Have  you  liked  it  in  Lakewood?  " 

"  You  know  I  have,"  she  said,  looking  steadily  at 
him. 

"  I've  felt  responsible  for  Lakewood,  you  know,"  he 
smiled  at  her.  "  I've  wanted,  all  the  time,  to  make  it 
a  place  you'd  like." 

"  It's  been  in  good  hands,"  Joan  said.  "  I've  loved 
it." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  following  her  in  his 
thoughts. 

"  I've  never  been  to  England,"  he  said. 

"  I  know.    It's  strange.    Why  haven't  you?  " 


310  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

"  Why  haven't  I?    Why,  think  who  I  am!  " 

"  I  was  thinking  just  that.  You  .  .  .  you  have  all 
the  world  for  your  own,  if  you  want  it." 

"  If  I'm  not  afraid  to  take  it,  you  mean." 

"  Afraid !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  could  you  pos- 
sibly be  afraid  of?  Amos  .  .  .  don't  you  see  what 
you  have?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her;  her  eyes  were  shining,  look- 
ing into  his  own.  Had  she  wanted  him  to  see  it?  Was 
it  this  that  she  was  trying  to  tell  him? 

But  no;  she  was  going  to  England,  where  he  would 
never  be  able  to  see  her  again;  the  mere  knowledge 
that  she  was  going  put  her  forever  beyond  his  reach. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  Joan,  listen!  "  he  cried.  "  You  know  all  about 
me;  you've  seen  through  me  in  a  way  I  didn't  think 
was  possible.  Don't  think  I* don't  understand,  too.  In 
another  month,  I'll  be  starting;  I  don't  know  how,  or 
where — but  I'll  make  a  place  in  the  world.  I  can't  do 
any  more  than  that." 

"  No,"  Joan  said.  "  There's  no  more  than  that  to 
say,  for  any  one.  Only — be  sure  you  make  a  place 
you'll  like." 

"  If  I  do  ...  will  you  like  it?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  like  it,  for  yourself.  Only — be  sure! 
You  know.  You  see  what  it  is  that  you  hold  in  your 
hands.  Nothing  in  the  whole  world  counts  but  that." 

"  I  know.    But  I'll  have  to  wait." 

"  If  you  wait,"  Joan  said,  "  it's  always  too  late." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  311 

An  air  of  indifference  and  carelessness  began  to  be 
felt  in  the  school;  lessons  were  not  so  strongly  insisted 
on,  and  delinquencies  were  passed  without  comment; 
teachers  gave  holidays,  and  curtailed  the  length  of  reci- 
tations; it  was  evident,  in  a  score  of  ways,  that  the 
end  was  at  hand.  There  was  very  little  studying  done 
in  the  dens  of  the  Seniors  in  West  House;  the  study 
hour  was  taken  up  with  visits  between  the  boys,  who 
looked  back  over  their  school-days,  and  talked  of  the 
days  that  were  to  come. 

And  as  for  Amos  Enday,  what  was  he  to  do? 

What  had  Joan  meant?  It  all  came  back  to  that. 
Did  she  mean  .  .  .  but  he  was  trapped,  no  matter 
what  she  meant.  He  must  do  something,  must  get 
ahead,  must  make  a  place  for  himself.  He  must  be 
prudent.  To  much  was  at  stake  to  admit  of  any  error 
in  choice. 

The  hour  had  struck;  the  Day  of  Judgment  was  at 
hand. 

"  My  dear  young  friends,"  Doctor  Kimber  had  said, 
in  his  last  address  to  the  school  on  graduation  day, 
"  My  dear  young  friends,  you  are  about  to  £o  out  into 
the  world.  It  will  not  make  much  of  you,  until  you  have 
won  for  yourselves  the  right  to  attention.  Some  things 
will  be  easier  than  you  have  dared  to  hope;  you  will 
meet  hard  and  trying  times — harder  and  more  trying 
than  you  had  thought  it  possible  for  any  man  to  go 
through  with,  and  live.  But  be  of  good  courage.  I 
have  watched  boys  go  out,  as  you  are  going  out,  for 
thirty  years,  and  I  can  give  you,  out  of  that  experience, 


312  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

no  better  counsel  than  that:  be  of  good  courage.  Fix 
your  eyes  on  a  goal  that  is  worthy  of  you,  and  fight  for 
it,  straight,  hard,  ceaselessly;  never  look  back,  take  no 
heed  of  the  distracting  advice  of  those  who  run  beside 
you.  Do  this,  and  you  will  remember  your  days  at 
Sheridan  with  gratitude,  and  Sheridan,  watching  you 
from  this  hill-top,  will  see  your  progress  with  pride— 
her  Boys!  " 

This  was  all  very  fine,  and  deeply  moving.  But 
the  Doctor  hadn't  said  a  word  about  prudence.  He 
hadn't  told  you  how  you  were  to  select  your  worthy 
goal.  He  didn't  say  if  your  father  was  one  of  those 
who  ran  beside  you,  whose  distracting  advice  you  were 
not  to  heed.  In  short,  he  said  that  you  were  right,  in 
principle,  but  he  didn't  tell  you  how  to  act. 

There  was  a  reception  in  the  Hall  after  the  gradu- 
ating ceremonies.  Joan  was  there,  with  Miss  Harmon. 

Amos  saw  her  in  the  crowd,  and  made  his  way  to  her. 

"  Amos,"  she  said.  "  We're  sailing  to-morrow. 
Would  you  .  .  .  I'd  like  it  if  you  could  come  down  to 
see  us  off." 

"Oh!  "  Amos  said.  "Why,  I'd  love  it!  It  will 
make  me  unhappy,  I  suppose,  but  I  don't  care  for 
that." 

"  I  think  it  will  make  me  unhappy,  too,"  Joan  said. 
"  But  I'd  like  to  see  you  again  before  we  go." 

Prudence,  forsooth!  Prudence  could  go  and  hide 
her  foolish  head! 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  313 

Amos  arrived  in  New  York.  He  was  miserably  un- 
happy, stirred  with  emotion,  and  frightened.  Pres- 
ently, within  a  few  short  hours,  his  heart  would  be 
broken — and  this  great  city  did  not  seem  to  care.  All 
about  him,  in  the  strange  streets,  people  were  hurry- 
ing along  on  their  own  business,  indifferent  and  unex- 
cited,  seeing  only  the  small  circle  of  their  own  separate 
worlds. 

He  must  find  a  florist.  Yes,  that  was  what  he  had  to 
do.  He  must  find  a  florist. 

"  I  want  some  flowers,"  he  said,  walking  into  the 
shop,  "  to  give  to  a  lady  that's  going  away." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  florist,  briskly.  "What'll  it 
be?" 

And  he  looked  like  a  kind  man,  too. 

The  streets  were  endless,  enormous.  Over  the  roofs 
of  the  nearer  houses  he  could  see  great  buildings,  tow- 
ering up  into  the  sky,  miles  away;  there  was  no  end  to 
it.  And  it  was  all  no  more  than  a  pin-point  in  the 
world!  From  the  deck  of  a  departing  ship,  how  soon 
would  it  fade  to  an  invisible  speck! 

The  wharf  was  a  huge  gloomy  place. 

"  Can  I  get  a  pass  to  go  on  board  the  ship?  "  Amos 
asked  of  a  man  in  the  office  at  the  entrance.  "I'm 
seeing  some  one  off." 

The  man  did  not  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
say,  "My  God!  Poor  fellow!"  He  wrote  out  a 
pass. 

From  the  deck  he  could  see  the  steel  blue  water  of 
the  river;  towboats  went  churning  past  the  end  of  the 


3H     THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

slip,  breathing  hard;  lighters  were  rolling  gently  be- 
side the  wharves;  a  greasy  little  power-boat  noisily 
sidled  off  with  the  current,  the  man  in  it,  smoking  a 
pipe,  as  if  nothing  were  wrong,  waved  his  hand  to  the 
crowd  on  the  liner.  The  winches  rattled  and  spouted 
steam,  and  the  derrick-booms  swung  and  grated. 

There  was  the  harbor,  leading  out  to  sea;  a  mist 
hung  over  the  water,  mercifully  hiding  the  horizon. 
And  Joan  was  going  away!  Those  men,  who  joked  as 
they  worked,  were  getting  this  ship  ready  to  go  to  sea ! 
He  wanted  to  cry  out  to  them,  to  tell  them  that  they 
didn't  know  what  they  were  doing;  that  they  were 
taking  Joan  away. 

He  found  her,  at  last.  She  was  standing  by  the  rail, 
watching  the  gangway. 

"  Joan,"  he  said. 

"Oh!  I've  been  watching.  I  was  beginning  to  be 
afraid  you  weren't  coming." 

He  put  his  flowers  in  her  arms,  without  a  word.  She 
hid  her  face  in  the  blossoms. 

"  I  can't  stand  this,"  he  said. 

She  looked  away  for  a  second,  and  turned  back 
smiling.  She  seemed  to  want  to  help  him. 

"  It's  exciting,  isn't  it?  "  she  said.  "  I  remember 
seeing  people  off,  when  I  wasn't  going  myself.  You 
feel  so  lost." 

"I've  never  seen  anybody  off  before.  No,  that 
doesn't  matter.  It's  just  that  I've  never  seen  you  .  .  . 
go  away  .  .  .  before." 

Miss  Harmon  joined  them. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  315 

"  Oh,  Amos!  I'm  glad  you  could  come.  What 
lovely  flowers!  " 

"  I  didn't  know  this  was  going  to  be  so  awful,"  he 
told  her. 

She  smiled,  and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

She  was  one  of  his  people.  She  was  friendly,  and 
strong  and  dependable.  Couldn't  she  tell  him  that  he 
had  never  had  a  father  and  mother;  that  there  had 
never  been  any  such  place  as  Wilton? 

She  changed  the  subject,  very  deliberately. 

"  Would  you  mind — I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  be  good 
enough  to  post  these  letters  when  you  go  back.  Would 
you?  " 

"  I'd  be  glad  to,"  he  managed  to  say. 

As  Miss  Harmon  turned  away,  he  saw  a  man  on  the 
bridge  above  his  head;  he  came  to  the  rail,  and  leaned 
on  it  for  a  moment,  looking  down.  The  Captain  .  .  . 
the  pilot  ...  he  was  going  to  take  this  ship  out,  in 
spite  of  everything. 

"  We  have  a  nice  cabin,"  Joan  said.  "  Would  you 
come  down,  just  for  a  moment?  " 

He  followed  her  down  the  stairs  and  along  the  pas- 
sage; a  small  close  passage,  dimly  lit,  with  a  wood  rail 
along  the  side;  people  were  visible  in  the  doors  of  the 
staterooms  as  he  passed,  hanging  up  coats,  fussing  over 
packages,  quieting  children.  He  saw  these  things  but 
dimly;  his  eyes  were  filled  with  Joan,  moving  on  ahead 
of  him.  Couldn't  he  reach  out  and  catch  her?  Couldn't 
he  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  hold  her — hold  her  close — 
and  never  let  her  go? 


3i6  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

Her  cabin  was  hushed  and  secluded;  the  noises  from 
the  deck  came  down  remotely,  as  if  from  a  great  dis- 
tance. The  port  light,  from  which  the  curtains  were 
drawn  back,  stared  stupidly  out  against  the  blank  wall 
of  the  wharf;  how  soon  would  it  look  out  over  the  sea! 
There  was  the  bed  in  which  she  would  sleep.  A  suit- 
case lay  on  the  sofa.  A  cloak  was  hanging  on  the  back 
of  the  door. 

"  Joan,"  he  said.  "  Joan,  you're  coming  back,  aren't 
you?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  replied.  "  I'm  coming  back.  But 
you  don't  .  .  ."  She  did  not  finish,  and  he  never  knew 
what  it  was  that  she  might  have  said. 

She  tried  to  smile  at  him,  and  failed,  and  tried  again, 
and  gave  up,  miserably. 

Up  above,  the  whistle  blew.  It  was  as  if  they  were 
packed  in  a  box  with  cotton  wool ;  a  far-away  roar  that 
shook  the  air. 

He  spread  out  his  hands.    "  There,"  he  said. 

"  You're  the  bravest  person  I  know,"  he  said. 
"You're  not  going  to  let  yourself  be  frightened  by 
this?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "It's  you,"  she  said,  "who 
mustn't  be  frightened — ever,  of  anything." 

"  I've  got  to  go." 

He  took  a  step  backward  toward  the  door,  stopped, 
and  came  forward  again. 

"  Dear,  I  can't  do  anything,  don't  you  see?  I'm  just 
.  .  .  I'm  nobody.  I  haven't  any  place,  yet." 

"  I  know." 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  317 

"  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  he  said,  trying  to  convince  her 
and  thus  convince  himself.  "  I'll  try  to  make  a  place 
for  you.  But  now — when  it  isn't  done — I  can't  ask 
...  I  couldn't  give  .  .  ."  His  voice  died  away. 
Didn't  she  believe  him? 

"  Good-by,"  she  said. 

"  Good-by." 

She  made  an  effort,  and  faced  him,  once  more. 

"  Never  forget,"  she  said.  "  Never  forget  that  you 
can  have  anything  in  the  world,  if  only  you  want  it 
.  .  .  enough." 

He  did  not  dare  to  take  her  hand.  He  tried  to  say 
something  more,  and  could  not. 

He  put  his  hands  on  the  sides  of  the  door,  and  felt 
his  way  out  into  the  passage. 

If  he  had  seen  her  standing  there,  looking  after  him, 
her  eyes  bright  with  enthusiasm  for  the  way  she  was 
sending  him  out  into  the  world  to  find  his  life  for  him- 
self— if  he  had  seen  her,  he  would  have  misunder- 
stood, and  would  have  gone  back. 

But  he  did  not  know — he  never  knew — what  she  was 
trying  to  give  him. 

He  was  pushing  his  way  up  the  stairs,  struggling  out 
to  the  deck,  lunging  desperately  down  the  gangway  to 
the  wharf. 

He  saw  the  ship  push  out  into  the  stream.  Miss 
Harmon  waved  to  him.  Joan  did  not  come.  He  saw 
the  steam  go  up  in  a  white  plume,  and  heard  the  three 
farewell  blasts  of  the  whistle. 

He  turned  back  into  the  streets,  wandering,  some- 


318  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

how,  to  the  station.  He  stopped  often,  as  if  he  were 
looking  for  something.  But  he  did  not  know  what  he 
was  looking  for. 

"  This  train  for  Wilton?  "  he  asked  the  man  at  the 
gate. 

"  Wilton;  yes,  sir,"  the  man  said 

He  sank  into  a  seat. 

Oh,  God  damn  me  for  a  fool!  Oh,  hell!  What  have 
I  done?  What  a  fool,  an  utter,  God-forgotten  fool! 

They  made  me  do  it!  They  sit  there,  always  under 
foot,  asking  me  to  die  for  them!  Why  should  I  listen? 
God,  why  did  I  listen!  What  right  have  they  to  ask  me 
to  die  for  them?  What  right  have  they  to  sit  there, 
year  after  year,  and  insist  that  I  take  nothing  for  my- 
self? I  hate  it!  I'm  sick  of  it!  Christ  knows  I'm  sick 
to  death  of  it! 

How  could  I  know  enough  not  to  trust  them?  How 
was  I  to  tell  that  they  never  spoke  the  truth?  I  asked 
them  what  life  was  like,  and  they  said,  "Look  out!  " 
That  was  all  they  knew:  "Look  out!  "  There  was 
danger  on  all  sides,  they  said.  Better  stick  close  to 
home,  they  said.  I've  fought  them — not  a  day  of  my 
life  that  I  haven't  fought  them.  And  what's  happened? 
Now,  when  I  needed  it — and  Oh,  I  needed  to  be  free 
this  day,  if  ever  a  man  needed  to  be  free! — I  called  on 
myself  for  courage,  and  there's  no  answer.  They've 
changed  me.  They've  got  me.  They've  built  their  sly 
damned  criminal  parlor  in  my  own  heart,  and  I  can't 
get  away  from  it.  I'm  done. 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  319 

Oh,  damn  them,  damn  them!  Damn  everything! 
Damn  everything! 

I'm  through;  I'm  finished.  I've  gone  to  hell.  And 
it  doesn't  matter. 

Hours  and  days  passed,  and  nothing  was  done  about 
it.  There  seemed  so  little  that  could  be  done — now. 
If  only  he  had  made  a  firmer  resistance,  or  had  declared 
his  independence  before  there  was  so  much  at  stake! 
If,  when  he  had  first  gone  away  to  school  ...  or  be- 
fore that  ...  or  when  he  was  a  baby.  .  .  . 

Well,  there  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  skip  all 
this  part  of  life,  to  put  it  away  behind  him,  and  try 
Clever  to  think  of  it  again. 

He  stumbled  along  up  the  dark  road  that  led  to  the 
Winterbournes'  farm. 

Constance  met  him  at  the  door,  when  he  knocked. 

"  Why,  Amos!  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Constance,"  he  said.  "  Constance,  will  you  marry 
me?" 

"Oh,  Jinks!  "  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands  to 
her  breast.  "Oh,  my  goodness  gracious!  Yes!  " 

Two  hours  later,  Amos  climbed  onto  the  train  and 
went  along  home  to  Wilton. 

He  stared  down  the  length  of  the  car  under  the 
smoky  yellow  lamps. 

"Good  Lord!  "  he  said.  "I've  done  for  myself 
now!  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

AMOS  ENDAY  was  married  on  the  fifteenth  of 
July,  1896. 

"  Gee,  what  a  day!  "  he  said.  "  I  wouldn't  have  be- 
lieved it  could  get  so  hot." 

Phanor  thought  he  knew  what  a  bad  wedding  day 
was,  but  he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  whether  it  was 
worse  to  freeze  to  death,  as  he  had  done  when  he  him- 
self was  married,  or  to  be  broiled  alive,  as  in  the  pres- 
ent instance.  He  stood  at  the  window  of  the  Winter- 
bournes'  sitting-room,  looking  out  across  the  fields 
towards  the  river,  watching  the  quivering  heat-waves 
ascend  ceaselessly  from  the  baking  ground.  He  kept 
telling  everybody  who  passed  that  he  was  hoping  for  a 
breath  of  air,  but  that  he  didn't  seem  likely  to  get  it. 

"  If  I'd  have  known  it  was  going  to  be  a  day  like 
this,"  Amos  said,  "  I'd  been  in  favor  of  waiting." 

"  Well,  that's  a  question,"  Phanor  said.  "  We  didn't 
see  much  but  ice,  when  we  were  married.  Remember, 
Isabel?  " 

Isabel  was  excited  at  having  so  many  people  about, 
and  Phanor  thought  she  was  getting  too  tired,  but  she 
held  out,  and  smiled  bravely,  taking  pains  that  her  hap- 
piness should  be  plainly  evident,  even  through  her  suf- 
fering. She  was,  in  fact,  greatly  pleased  with  the 

match;  she  "  had  always  said  "  that  Constance  was  a 

320 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  321 

good  girl,  who  would  make  an  excellent  home  for 
Amos.  Now  that  the  long  anxiety  was  over,  she  felt — 
and  made  the  others  feel — that  her  son  might  have  mar- 
ried any  one  of  a  number  of  girls.  But  she  took  good 
care  that  no  one  should  ask  which  girls  these  were, 
and  whenever  she  thought  of  the  alternatives,  she  was 
relieved  and  happy  again.  She  and  Phanor  had  wor- 
ried a  great  deal  about  getting  Amos  married  to  the 
right  person — well,  they  couldn't  have  found  any  one 
they  liked  better,  even  if  they  had  picked  her  out 
themselves,  than  Constance  Winterbourne. 

Phanor  had  been  "  fortunate  enough "  to  "  hold 
open  "  a  place  for  Amos  in  the  Wilton  Mills;  it  was  a 
position  with  Mr.  Hungerford,  who  had  recently  been 
promoted  to  the  superintendence  of  both  the  East  and 
West  Mills;  Amos  had  refused  it,  to  be  sure,  when  it 
was  first  offered,  but  Phanor  "  had  reason  to  hope  " 
that  this  was  but  a  temporary  decision.  And  so  it 
turned  out.  When  he  had  brought  the  matter  up 
again,  at  the  close  of  school,  his  faith  had  been  re- 
warded by  the  boy's  complete  acceptance. 

Amos  worked  hard  and  devotedly,  and  he  had  been 
granted  a  raise  in  salary  at  the  beginning  of  the  year. 
He  saw  no  reason,  then,  for  further  delay,  for  he  did 
not  dare  all  himself  to  question  the  wisdom  of  marry- 
ing Constance,  and  he  told  her  that  they  could  be  mar- 
ried whenever  she  chose.  She  chose  the  first  of  June, 
but  that  was  rather  too  close,  and  could  not  be  made  to 
fit  in  with  Amos'  vacation  at  the  Mill,  and  he  put  it 
off  till  the  fifteenth  of  July. 


322  THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS 

He  had  hunted  for  a  house,  and  succeeded  in  finding 
an  upstairs  apartment  in  Elm  Street,  nearly  opposite 
number  97,  where  he  had  been  born.  Constance  had 
always  wanted  to  live  in  Wilton,  and  was  delighted  with 
the  arrangement  of  the  rooms,  and  with  the  furniture, 
which  they  had  been  able  to  gather  from  stores  and 
from  the  stocks  of  cast-offs  in  the  garrets  of  the  En- 
days  and  the  Winterbournes.  It  was  ready  for  them 
by  the  day  of  the  wedding,  and  they  went  away  for  a 
brief  honeymoon  with  the  delicious  sense  that  they 
were  coming  back  to  a  regular  home  in  an  orderly 
world.  Constance  knew  that  this  was  exactly  what 
Amos  needed — though  he  was  not  always  willing  to  ad- 
mit that  it  was  what  he  wanted — and  she  sat  about  the 
task  of  giving  it  to  him,  from  the  very  moment  of  the 
wedding. 

Everything  went  off  very  well  indeed.  The  arrange- 
ments were  all  made  by  people  who  had  themselves 
been  married,  and  it  soon  became  evident  that  things 
were  going  as  they  should.  The  most  unpleasant  pos- 
sibility was  in  respect  to  Mr.  Winterbourne,  who  had 
been  carefully  trained  in  the  task  of  walking  slowly 
enough  to  maintain  the  time  of  the  Wedding  March; 
but  he  justified  the  labor  spent  on  him,  and  did  not  once 
overbalance.  In  every  direction,  special  precautions 
were  taken  against  unpleasant  occurrrences. 

Following  the  actual  ceremony,  there  was  a  period 
of  twenty-two  minutes  for  hand-shakings,  congratula- 
tions, and  kisses;  then  the  bride  and  groom  withdrew. 
As  they  appeared  again,  the  carriage  drew  up  at  the 


THE  PARLOR  BEGAT  AMOS  323 

door.  Constance  wept  for  a  moment  on  her  mother's 
shoulder,  and  received  a  blessing  and  a  kiss  from  her 
father;  then  they  made  their  way  down  the  steps, 
through  the  nearest  and  dearest,  gathered  in  the  door- 
way, and  climbed  into  the  carriage,  which  had  been 
standing  in  the  sun  so  long  that  it  resembled  an  oven, 
and  drove  away. 

In  the  quiet  and  darkened  bedroom,  where  Phanor 
and  Isabel  went  to  get  their  things,  he  turned  to  her 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Crickey!  "  he  said.  "  I  can't  help  feeling  relieved 
that  it's  all  over." 

"  It  has  been  hard,"  Isabel  agreed.  "  But,  thank 
Heaven,  it  came  out  all  right  in  the  end." 


THE   END 


323  SO.SPRINGST. 


A     000128979 


